Footsteps of the BoyWhoLived
by drakensis
Summary: Harry Potter... isn't Harry Potter. Looking out through his eyes is a young teenager lost in a world of magic and wonder that is not his own.
1. Chapter 1

Michael woke in a small hut. Waves were splattering the against the walls and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. A very fat boy with blond hair was sleeping on a moth-eaten sofa under a few moldy blankets and the snoring from behind one of the two doors suggested that another room was also being used as a bedroom. For his part, Michael was curled under the thinnest, most ragged blanket he'd ever seen, on the cold stone floor.

After a while lying there, trying to make himself believe that this was some strange dream, he sat up and leant against the wall, grimacing as his stomach rumbled with hunger. Between the snores from the fat boy and the next room, it was barely audible and even they were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight according to the lighted dial of the boy's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist.

Shortly after the thunder began, Michael heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did.

Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea? And why was he worried about these strange sounds when everything about his surroundings was unfamiliar and hostile in its feel.

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Michael leapt to his feet, confusion set aside as he stared at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

BOOM. They knocked again. The fat boy jerked awake. "Where's the cannon?" he said stupidly. Michael frowned. He'd though that the boy was a year or two younger than him but actually he was larger.

"Somebody's at the door," Michael replied and hoped that no one would challenge his presence.

There was a crash behind them and a large, fat man came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands and Michael promptly backed up away from him – he didn't look like he knew what he was doing with it and that could be more dangerous than if he actually had some training.

"Who's there?" he shouted. "I warn you - I'm armed!"

There was a pause. Then -

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor. Michael promptly took cover behind the sofa and hoped that anything coming through would be stopped by the moth-eaten piece of furniture. The way his luck was going, it probably wouldn't. He peeked around the side of the sofa and saw a giant of a man standing in the doorway. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair.

The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame as if that made everything alright again. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all.

"Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy journey..."

He strode over to the sofa where the fat boy sat frozen with fear.

"Budge up, yeh great lump," said the new arrival.

The boy squeaked and ran to hide behind a woman, who had entered while Michael wasn't looking and was crouching, terrified, behind the fat man with the rifle. For his part Michael stood up and went back to his blanket, folding it into a pad that he could sit on without breaking his buttocks on the stone floor.

"An' here's Harry!" said the giant.

Michael looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face staring down at him and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

"Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby," said the giant. "Yeh look a lot like yet dad, but yeh've got yet mom's eyes."

The man with the gun made a funny rasping noise.

"I demand that you leave at once, sir!" he said. "You are breaking and entering!"

"Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune," said the giant; he reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon's hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room. Michael's eyebrows rose. That was a neat trick.

Dursley made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.

"Anyway - Harry," said the giant, turning his back on the little family tableau, "a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here - I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right."

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed box. Michael opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with 'Happy Birthday Harry' written on it in green icing.

Michael looked up at the giant. "Um, thank you?"

The giant chuckled. "You're very welcome, Harry. Ah, but I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts." He held out an enormous hand and shook Michael's whole arm. "What about that tea then, eh?" he said, rubbing his hands together. "I'd not say no ter summat stronger if yeh've got it, mind."

His eyes fell on the grate, empty except for a few shriveled chip bags and he snorted, then bent down over the fireplace; Michael couldn't see what he was doing but when he drew back a second later, there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Michael felt the warmth wash over him as though he'd sunk into a hot bath.

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, the fat boy fidgeted a little. Dursley said sharply, "Don't touch anything he gives you, Dudley."

The giant chuckled darkly. "Yet great puddin' of a son don' need fattenin' anymore, Dursley, don' worry."

He passed the sausages to Michael, who was hungry enough that he devoured them ravenously, not caring that they were hot enough that his tongue felt like it was getting burnt. There hadn't been any conversation while he ate so he still didn't have any idea what was going on. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, he said, "Thanks for the sausages Mr. Hagrid. But I'm sure you didn't just come here to feed me. What's going on?"

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Call me Hagrid," he said, "everyone does. An' I came her from Hogwarts - yeh'll know all about Hogwarts, o' course."

Michael frowned. "No – never heard of it."

Hagrid looked shocked.

"Sorry," Michael said and shrugged.

"Sorry?" barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the family behind him, who shrank back into the shadows. "It' s them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren't gettin' yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn't even know abou' Hogwarts, fer cryin' out loud! Did yeh never wonder where yet parents learned it all?"

"Where they learned what?" asked Michael, wondering if Hagrid meant his parents or the parents of this Harry kid that he'd apparently taken the place of.

"WHERE THEY LEARNED WHAT?" Hagrid thundered. "Now wait jus' one second!" He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill the whole hut. The family were cowering against the wall. "Do you mean ter tell me," he growled at them, "that this boy - this boy! - knows nothin' abou' - about ANYTHING?"

Michael scowled at him. "Anything you're talking about, anyway," he said. "I know a fair few things about other stuff."

Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, "About our world, I mean. Your world. My world. Yer parents' world."

"World?" Michael replied blankly. Is that something to do with my being here? he thought.

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode. "DURSLEY!" he boomed.

Dursley, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like "Mimblewimble." Hagrid stared wildly at Michael. "But yeh must know about yet mom and dad," he said. "I mean, they're famous. You're famous."

"Famous? What for?" Michael asked, surprised. Crap – how was he supposed to know about Harry's parents – his own certainly weren't famous, or even well known, for anything, outside their relatively narrow circles that was.

"Yeh don' know... yeh don' know..." Hagrid ran his fingers through his hair, fixing Michael with a bewildered stare. "Yeh don' know what yeh are?" he said finally.

Dursley suddenly found his voice. "Stop!" he commanded. "Stop right there, sit! I forbid you to tell the boy anything!"

When Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with rage. "You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An' you've kept it from him all these years?"

"Kept what from me?" said Michael curiously.

"STOP! I FORBID YOU!" yelled Dursley in panic. Behind him, the woman gave a gasp of horror.

"Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh," said Hagrid. "Harry - yer a wizard."

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling wind could be heard.

"A… wizard…?" Michael asked slowly.

"Yeah, o' course," said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, "an' a thumpin' good'un, I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad like yours, what else would yeh be? An' I reckon it's abou' time yeh read yer letter."

Michael stretched out his hand to take the yellowish envelope, Hagrid offered him. It was addressed in emerald green to Mr. H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. He pulled out the letter and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Michael read it again, more carefully, to make sure he hadn't mistaken what it said. Most it seemed fairly clear, except… "It says 'we await your owl'," he said. "What's that about?"

"Gallopin' Gorgons, that reminds me," said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his forehead with enough force to knock over a cart horse, and from yet another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl - a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl - a long quill, and a roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note in handwriting large enough that that Michael could easily read it upside down:

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_Given Harry his letter._

_Taking him to buy his things tomorrow._

_Weather's horrible._

_Hope you're well._

_Hagrid_

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone.

"You send mail by carrier owls?" Michael asked, then realised how stupid that sounded and closed his mouth.

"Yeah, o' course," Hagrid said. "How else would we send 'em? Now, where was I?" said Hagrid, but at that moment, Dursley, still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.

"He's not going," he said.

Hagrid grunted. "I'd like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him," he said.

"Muggle?" asked Michael, not recognizing the word.

"A Muggle," said Hagrid, "it's what we call nonmagic folk like them. An' it's your bad luck you grew up in a family o' the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on."

"We swore when we took him in we'd put a stop to that rubbish," said Dursley, "swore we'd stamp it out of him! Wizard indeed!"

"So you knew this all along?" said Michael, incredulously. "You knew I'd be a wizard?"

"Knew!" shrieked the woman suddenly. "Knew! Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that-that school - and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!"

She stopped to draw a deep breath and Michael took the opportunity to respond. "Sounds to me like you were jealous." So, he thought. She's my aunt then.

The woman went pale and then red again. "Jealous?" she shrieked. "Jealous? Of being strange? Of being abnormal?"

"Of your parents being proud?" Michael suggested in a deceptively mild tone. "Of getting their attention when she was at home? Aren't you being a little bit petty?"

"Petty!" shrieked the woman. "Tha blasted magic got her killed, her and that husband of hers. Her blown up and us stuck with you!"

Michael took a step back from the venom in her voice. So… my parents are dead. "Blown up?" he asked quietly. "What do you mean, 'blown up'?"

"WHAT!" roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the woman, Dudley and Dursley all scuttled back to their corner. "How could you not tell Harry what happened to Lily an' James? It's an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowing' his own story when every kid in our world knows his name!"

"What happened? Why would I be famous for that?" Michael asked. He scratched his head – every question that was answered led to a dozen more.

The anger faded from Hagrid's face. He looked suddenly anxious. "I never expected this," he said, in a low, worried voice. "I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin' hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know. Ah, Harry, I don' know if I'm the right person ter tell yeh - but someone's gotta - yeh can't go off ter Hogwarts not knowin'." He threw a dirty look at the terrified family.

"Tell me what you can, then," Michael said sitting next to him on the sofa. "I can learn the rest later."

Hagrid sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, "It begins, I suppose, with - with a person called - but it's incredible yeh don't know his name, everyone in our world knows -"

"Who?"

"Well - I don' like sayin' the name if I can help it. No one does."

"Eh? Why not?"

"Gulpin' gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went... bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was..." Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

"Oh for cripes' sake!" Michael exclaimed. "He's not likely to pop out of the fireplace if you say his name!"

"All right - Voldemort." Hagrid shuddered. "Don't make me say it again. Anyway, this - this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too - some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power, 'cause he was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't know who ter trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches... terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to him - an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn't dare try takin' the school, not jus' then, anyway."

"Now, yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side before... probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin' ter do with the Dark Side."

What is this, Star Wars? Michael thought irreverently.

"Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em... maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an' - an' -" Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn. "Sorry," he said. "But it's that sad - knew yer mum an' dad, an' nicer people yeh couldn't find - anyway..."

"He killed them?" Michael asked.

"Yeah. An' then - an' this is the real myst'ry of the thing - he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin' by then. But he couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a Powerful, evil curse touches yeh - took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even - but it didn't work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the best witches an' wizards of the age - the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts - an' you was only a baby, an' you lived."

Michael rubbed his forehead and felt a thin line of scar tissue marking a jagged line across his forehead. "Bloody hell," he whispered.

Hagrid was watching him sadly. "Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore's orders. Brought yeh ter this lot..."

"Load of old tosh," said Dursley. Michael stood up from the sofa and glared at him. The man certainly seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were clenched. "Now, you listen here, boy," he snarled, "I accept there's something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured - and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying -"

Michael had been known for a great many things at his school – but among them he'd been known for having an explosive temper. It had gotten him into a bit of trouble over the years. He'd stiffened at the word beating – he'd earned an odd smack from his parents but never anything that could be described as a beating – but it was the derisive tone of the word 'weirdos' that set him off. With an incoherent snarl he leapt up onto the sofa, put one foot at the back and jumped at Dursley, who reeled back – more from surprise than injury.

Before Michael could go for the man with his teeth or Dursley could rally a defense, Michael was dragged back off him by Hagrid, who set him back on the sofa and kept a restraining hand on his shoulder. Pointing a battered pink umbrella at Dursley like a sword, he said, "I'm warning you, Dursley - I'm warning you - one more word..."

In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a bearded giant, Dursley's courage failed again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell silent.

"That's better," said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor. "Now calm down, Harry. There's no use doing that sort of thing."

"It'll make me feel better," Michael replied mutinously, but he sat down under the gentle pressure from Hagrid's hand.

"So what happened to that Voldemort bloke?" he asked, not caring that Hagrid flinched at the name.

"Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst'ry, see... he was gettin' more an' more powerful - why'd he go?"

"Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he's still out there, bidin' his time, like, but I don' believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Don't reckon they could've done if he was comin' back."

"Most of us reckon he's still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. 'Cause somethin' about you finished him, Harry. There was somethin' goin' on that night he hadn't counted on - I dunno what it was, no one does - but somethin' about you stumped him, all right."

Hagrid looked at Michael with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes and Michael felt like a complete fraud. He wasn't even the real Harry Potter and now he'd be famous for something that he hadn't had even the least bit to do with. Not, he thought, looking at his aunt and the fat lumps that were presumably her husband and son, that it seemed to have done Harry any good.

"Let's hope I'm really a wizard then," he said finally. "It would be a bit of a turn up for the books if I could defeat some great sorcerer when I was a baby and can't do any magic now."

Hagrid chuckled. "Really a wizard?" he said. "Oh you'll be a wizard alright. You wait, you'll be right famous at Hogwarts."

But Dursley wasn't going to give in without a fight.

"Haven't I told you he's not going?" he hissed. "He's going to Stonewall High and he'll be grateful for it. I've read those letters and he needs all sorts of rubbish - spell books and wands and -"

"If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won't stop him," growled Hagrid. "Stop Lily an' James Potter's son goin' ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His name's been down ever since he was born. He's off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and he won't know himself. He'll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an' he'll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had Albus Dumbled-"

"I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL To TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!" yelled Dursley.

A few moments before, Michael had lost his temper with the man. Now it was Hagrid's turn. The giant seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head. "NEVER," he thundered, "- INSULT- ALBUS - DUMBLEDORE – IN - FRONT- OF- ME!" He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Dudley - there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Michael saw a curly pig's tail poking through a hole in his trousers.

Dursley roared. Pulling Harry's aunt – Michael still didn't know her name - and Dudley into the other room, he cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard. "Shouldn'ta lost me temper," he said ruefully, "but it didn't work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there wasn't much left ter do." He cast a sideways look at Michael under his bushy eyebrows. "Be grateful if yeh didn't mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts," he said. "I'm - er - not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin'. I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an' get yer letters to yeh an' stuff- one o' the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job."

"S'alright," Michael replied. "It was a bit much though." Hagrid looked despondent at the criticism. "Couldn't you have aimed at Dursley, not Dudley?" Michael asked, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Hagrid blinked and then brightened, chuckling loudly. "Yeh right about that, Harry. Any road, it's gettin' late and we've got lots ter do tomorrow," he said. "Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an' that." He took off his thick black coat and threw it to Michael. "You can kip under that," he said. "Don' mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I still got a couple o' dormice in one o' the pockets."

.oOo.

Michael woke early the next morning. The feel of the sofa's battered cushions underneath him was nothing like his bed and he could feel the rough material of Hagrid's coat against his face, convincing him that this was no dream. It took him a moment to work out what had woken him but then there was a loud tapping noise.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"All right," Michael mumbled, "I'm getting up."

He sat up and Hagrid's heavy coat fell off him. The hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and there was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a newspaper held in its beak.

With a sigh, Michael pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes before walking over to the window and opening it with a jerk. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who didn't wake up. The owl then fluttered onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid's coat.

"Oi," Michael said, trying to wave the owl off. "What did the coat ever do to you?" The bird snapped its beak fiercely at him and carried on savaging the coat.

Abandoning that tactic, Michael shook Hagrid's shoulder. "There's an owl eating your coat," he said loudly

"Pay him," the man grunted into the sofa.

"What?" Michael asked, unsure if he'd heard correctly.

"He wants payin' fer deliverin' the paper. Look in the pockets."

Hagrid's coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets – Michael rather liked it – and they were all stuffed full of bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags... finally, Michael pulled out a handful of antique-looking coins.

"Give him five Knuts," said Hagrid sleepily.

"Nuts? I thought he wanted money?"

"Knuts," Hagrid insisted. "The little bronze coins."

"Ah."

Michael counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held out his leg so Michael could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew off through the open window.

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched. "Best be off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an' buy all yer stuff fer school."

Michael put the rest of the coins away and returned Hagrid's coat to him. "Is that going to be expensive?" He asked cautiously. "I don't really have any money, you know."

"None o' that," said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots. "D'yeh think yer parents didn't leave yeh anything?"

"Oh," Michael said. "Hadn't thought of that." Damn – first I pretend to be this Harry Potter boy and now I'm going to spend his money. Whatever next?

"Have a sausage, they're not bad cold," said Hagrid, standing up and scratching his head. "an' I wouldn' say no teh a bit o' yer birthday cake, neither."

Michael bit into a sausage and decided that Hagrid was right about them. "Help yourself," he mumbled around a mouthful. "So is it in a bank or something?"

"Yeah, first stop fer us is Gringotts. Wizards' bank. Run by goblins."

"Goblins?" Michael exclaimed. "Really?"

"Yeah - so yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it, I'll tell yeh that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe - 'cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o'fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. Fer Dumbledore. Hogwarts business." Hagrid drew himself up proudly. "He usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him. Fetchin' you, gettin' things from Gringotts - knows he can trust me, see."

Michael followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

"How did you get here?" Michael asked, looking around for another boat.

"Flew," said Hagrid.

"Flew?" Michael asked nervously. He wasn't terribly fond of heights.

"Yeah - but we'll go back in this. Not s'pposed ter use magic now I've got yeh."

They settled down in the boat, Michael still staring at Hagrid, trying to imagine him flying.

"Seems a shame ter row, though," said Hagrid, giving Michael another of his sideways looks. "If I was ter - er - speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not mentionin' it at Hogwarts?"

Michael smiled and tapped the side of his nose. "My lips are sealed," he answered, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward land.

Michael sat back and dozed for a while as the boat skimmed across the sea. Hagrid read his newspaper, a big tabloid that called itself the Daily Prophet. Michael had never been very keen on newspapers to read but the boat seats weren't made to be slept on, and there was nothing else to do so he tried to read the story on the front page. None of it made sense though – he didn't know who anyone was and half the words were unfamiliar. The only thing that he did see was that the date was apparently the 31st of July.

"Ministry o' Magic messin' things up as usual," Hagrid muttered, turning the page.

"What's the Ministry of Magic?" Michael asked, before he could stop himself.

"Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there's still witches an' wizards up an' down the country."

Michael nodded. This made perfect sense to him – if he could do magic, then the last thing he'd want was for people to know about it. He'd not be able to get away with half as much, but as long as no one believed in magic he could get away with almost anything. And apparently he _could_ do magic.

At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street.

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to the station. Michael couldn't blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, "See that, Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?"

Finally they reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes' time. Hagrid, who didn't understand 'Muggle money', as he called it, gave the notes to Michael so he could buy their tickets. Michael had never spent so much money at one time in his life. In fact, he wasn't sure every time he'd spent money put together had cost as much money as those two tickets.

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent.

"Still got yer letter, Harry?" he asked as he counted stitches.

Michael put his hand in his pocket and felt the parchment envelope. He nodded.

"Good," said Hagrid. "There's a list there of everything yeh need."

Michael unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn't read the night before, and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)

2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emetic Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

Wand

cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) set

glass or crystal phials

telescope set

brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

"Can we buy all this stuff in London?" Michael asked in surprise. He'd only been to London a couple of times but he'd never seen this sort of thing in any shops anywhere.

"If yeh know where to go," said Hagrid.

Although Hagrid seemed to know where he was going in London, he was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground, and complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.

"I don't know how the Muggles manage without magic," he said as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with shops.

"I suppose we just muggle along," said Michael innocently but Hagrid didn't get the joke.

Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Michael had to do was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music stores, hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Were there really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke that someone had cooked up at Michael's expense? Michael shrugged. Hagrid didn't seem the type to play that sort of a joke and, Michael supposed, if it was a joke then someone had gone to a lot of effort. It would be a shame not to see how far it would go.

"This is it," said Hagrid, coming to a halt, "the Leaky Cauldron. It's a famous place."

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn't pointed it out, Michael wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn't glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Michael had the most peculiar feeling that only he and Hagrid could see it. Before he could mention this, Hagrid had steered him inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, "The usual, Hagrid?"

"Can't, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business," said Hagrid, clapping his great hand on Michael's shoulder and making Michael's knees buckle.

"Good Lord," said the bartender, peering at Michael, "is this - can this be -?"

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

"Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "Harry Potter... what an honor."

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Michael and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."

Michael didn't know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out. Hagrid was beaming.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Michael found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.

"Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last."

"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud."

"Always wanted to shake your hand - I'm all of a flutter."

"Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle's the name, Dedalus Diggle."

Michael shook hands again and again - Doris Crockford kept coming back for more.

A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching. "Professor Quirrell!" said Hagrid. "Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."

"P-P-Potter," stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Michael's hand, "c-can't t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you."

"Oh?" Michael said, a little surprised. He looked awfully young to be a teacher. "I'm, er, pleased to meet you."

Professor Quirrell laughed nervously. "You'll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself." He looked terrified at the very thought. Michael couldn't blame him – goblins and vampires… what else might be out there?

In the end, it took almost ten minutes to get away from the crowd. By that time, Michael was right on the edge of pushing them all out of the way and running right back out into London. He didn't mind a little attention but he was finding that it was possible to have too much of a good thing. Fortunately, Hagrid managed at last to make himself heard over the babble. "Must get on - lots ter buy. Come on, Harry."

Doris Crockford shook Michael's hand one last time, and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

Hagrid grinned at Michael. "Told yeh, didn't I? Told yeh you was famous. Even Professor Quirrell was tremblin' ter meet yeh - mind you, he's usually tremblin'."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was studyin' outta books but then he took a year off ter get some firsthand experience... They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a nasty bit o' trouble with a hag - never been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own subject now, where's me umbrella?"

Hags? Michael rolled his eyes. I wonder what his subject is that he's so scared of it.

Hagrid, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall above the trash can. "Three up... two across," he muttered. "Right, stand back, Harry." He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.

The brick he had touched quivered - it wriggled - in the middle, a small hole appeared - it grew wider and wider - a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight. "Welcome," said Hagrid, "to Diagon Alley." He grinned at Michael's amazement. They stepped through the archway. Michael looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into a solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. 'Cauldrons - All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver - Self-Stirring- Collapsible', said a sign hanging over them.

"Yeah, you'll be needin' one," said Hagrid, "but we gotta get yer money first."

Michael hunched his shoulders and brushed some of his hair, which was now black as soot and seemed quite unruly, over his forehead. He'd rather not get any more attention right now. Nonetheless, he turned his head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, "Dragon liver, seventeen Sickles an ounce, they're mad..."

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying 'Eeylops Owl Emporium - Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy'. Several boys of about Michael's age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. "Look," Michael heard one of them say, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand - fastest ever -" There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Michael had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon...

"Gringotts," said Hagrid.

They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was -

"Yeah, that's a goblin," said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Michael. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Michael noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

"Like I said, Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it," said Hagrid.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Michael made for the counter.

"Morning," said Hagrid to a free goblin. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe."

"You have his key, Sir?"

"Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin's book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Michael winced and turned his attention from the goblin on their right, who was weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals, and picked the biscuits up, stacking them to one side.

"Got it," said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely. "That seems to be in order."

"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."

The goblin read the letter carefully. "Very well," he said, handing it back to Hagrid, "I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!"

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Michael followed Griphook towards one of the doors leading off the hall.

"What's the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?" Michael asked.

"Can't tell yeh that," said Hagrid mysteriously. "Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore's trusted me. More'n my job's worth ter tell yeh that."

Griphook held the door open for them. Michael, who had expected more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in - Hagrid with some difficulty - and were off.

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Michael tried desperately not to let the nausea he felt show on his face. The sausages he'd eaten felt like they were about to make an escape.His eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them wide open. Once, he thought he saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see what had caused it, but too late - they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

Hagrid looked very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, he got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his knees from trembling. Michael had to take a few deep breaths himself, to keep his stomach under control.

Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Michael gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

"All yours," smiled Hagrid.

"Bloody hell," said Michael, stunned. "That's lot of money. How much am I likely to need?"

Hagrid helped him to pile some of it into a bag. "That should be enough fer a couple o' terms," he advised. "The gold ones are Galleons. Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it's easy enough."

"Uh," Michael grunted. It might be easy if you'd grown up with it, but he'd grown up with the decimal system with was a great deal easier. "Can I change some of this to re- er, muggle money?" he asked Griphook.

"Take it upstairs," Griphook advised shortly.

"Thanks," said Michael and picked up a few more coins for himself.

Hagrid turned to Griphook. "Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?"

"One speed only," said Griphook.

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine, and Michael leaned over the side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom, but Hagrid groaned and pulled him back by the scruff of his neck.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

"Stand back," said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door gently with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.

"If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there," said Griphook.

"Do you ever check to see if anyone's inside?" Michael asked.

"About once every ten years," said Griphook with a rather nasty grin that Michael returned.

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Michael was sure, and he glanced inside - but at first he thought it was empty. Then he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat. Michael wondered what it was, but knew better than to ask.

"All that glitters is not gold," he quoted from one of his parents' Shakespeare volumes.

"Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don't talk to me on the way back, it's best if I keep me mouth shut," said Hagrid.

One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Michael didn't know where to run first now that he had a bag full of money. He didn't have to know how many Galleons there were to a pound to know that he was holding more money than he'd had in his whole life - more money than even Dudley had ever had.

"Might as well get yer uniform," said Hagrid, nodding toward 'Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions'. "Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts." He did still look a bit sick, so Michael nodded and took the opportunity to duck back inside Gringotts and change the coins in his pocket for pounds and pence that he could spend in London or wherever he wound up. Hopefully he could get some clothes that fit him better than the ones that he had.

It was with that thought that he entered Madam Malkin's shop alone, feeling nervous.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. "Hogwarts, dear?" she said, when Michael started to speak. "Got the lot here - another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

Michael nodded. "And something else – a bit unusual," he said, an idea forming.

"Oh, not a problem, dear. Shall we deal with the uniforms first?"

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Michael on a stool next to him; slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

"Hello," said the boy, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Mm," said Michael in an agreeable tone.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to took at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Michael scratched his chin and said nothing. His parents had told him that he didn't have anything nice to say, to say nothing. But it didn't keep him from thinking that this must be the most spoiled kid he'd ever met.

"Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on.

"Mph," said Michael and shook his head.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"Mph," Michael repeated.

"I do - Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"Haven't decided yet," said Michael, the most he'd said to the boy so far. He didn't have a clue what he meant, but he wasn't about to admit ignorance.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been - imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Hmm," said Michael and looked away from the boy.

"I say, look at that man!" said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Michael and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in.

"Hagrid," said Michael, and waved back to Hagrid, giving a thumbs up to indicate that he understood. "He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"You don't get out much, do you?" said Michael mildly. He was liking the boy less and less every second.

"I heard he's a sort of savage - lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed."

"Do you talk about everyone behind their backs like this," asked Michael sarcastically.

"Only the ones who aren't worth my time," said the boy, with a sneer. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"Buried somewhere," said Michael casually. He didn't feel like giving this boy any emotional hooks.

"Oh, sorry," said the other, not sounding sorry at all. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"Well, one of them was a girl – I hear that that's kind of mandatory."

"They were a wizard and a witch though," the boy demanded.

Michael smirked. "What does it matter?"

The boy started and then glared at him. "They shouldn't let your sort in! You're not the same, you don't know our ways! I bet you'd never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter. Hogwarts should be kept it in the old wizarding families!"

Michael rolled his eyes. "Well, all that applies to me," he said amicably. "Except that my parents _were_ a wizard and a witch – I just wasn't raised as one. Sounds like it's that that you object to, not parentage at all."

But before the boy could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Michael, not sorry for having had the last word, hopped down from the footstool.

"Now," said Madame Malkin. "What did you have in mind?"

.oOo.

Michael had several questions for Hagrid as they ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts). Michael didn't much like the raspberry but he ate it anyway to keep Hagrid happy.

"Hagrid, what's Quidditch?"

"Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know - not knowin' about Quidditch!"

"Is that like not knowing about parking meters," asked Michael, thinking of the way Hagrid had behaved on their way to the train station.

Hagrid laughed. "It's more like not knowing what football is, Harry. Quidditch is our sport. Wizard sport. It's like - like soccer in the Muggle world - everyone follows Quidditch - played up in the air on broomsticks and there's four balls - sorta hard ter explain the rules."

He also told Hagrid about the pale boy in Madam Malkin's.

"- he reckoned people from Muggle families shouldn't be allowed in."

"Yer not from a Muggle family. If he'd known who yeh were - he's grown up knowin' yer name if his parents are wizardin' folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh. Anyway, what does he know about it, some o' the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in 'em in a long line o' Muggles - look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a sister!"

"He's only my age Hagrid – if he believes it it's because someone told him. I know it's rubbish – I've been raised muggle, like my Mum. But how many more people believe it?"

"There's a few, Harry. Some folk don't meet Muggles much and they don't understand them at all. Most wizards have muggles in their families these days, so we know better."

"And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?"

"School houses. There's four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o' duffers, but better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," said Hagrid darkly. "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one."

"You-Know-Who?" Michael asked.

"Yes."

"No – I don't know who, Hagrid. Or do you mean that Vold-"

Michael cut off as Hagrid waved his hands frantically. "Don't say that, Harry," he said. ""Don't go saying it in public, folks'll get upset."

"What, still?" Michael asked. "He's been gone for ten years, Hagrid."

"Doesn't matter," Hagrid said. "There's never been a dark lord as bad and there's no point taking chances."

.oOo.

They bought Michael's school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley, who never read anything, would have been wild to get his hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to drag Michael away from some of the history books and he wouldn't let Michael buy any books on curses either, but they got a pewter cauldron, a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was almost fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Michael, Michael himself went back outside and hoped he wouldn't have to use any of the more disgusting ingredients in classes at Hogwarts.

Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Michael's list again. "Just yer wand left - A yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present."

Michael blinked. "Birthday?" Then he felt silly – certainly, his birthday was in winter, but obviously Harry's must be today or yesterday – why else would Hagrid have given him a cake saying 'Happy Birthday Harry'? It was a bit embarrassing not to know when his birthday was supposed to be.

"Yeah –Harry, you do know your birthday is today, don't you?" Hagrid asked. Michael's expression must have been sufficient answer for he huffed angrily. "Why those useless Muggles! Right then, tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at - an' I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'."

Michael's protests to the contrary, fifteen minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Michael now carried a large cage that held a study-looking tawny owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. "Thanks," said Michael shortly.

"Don' mention it," said Hagrid gruffly, taking the reticence as to mean that Michael was all choked up rather than ambivalent. "Don' expect you've had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now - only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand."

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Michael felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Michael jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair.

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"'Morning," said Michael awkwardly.

"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Michael. Michael wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy. "Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it - it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Michael were almost nose to nose. Michael could see himself reflected in those misty eyes. "And that's where..." Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Michael's forehead with a long, white finger. "I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands... well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do..."

He shook his head and then, to Michael's relief, spotted Hagrid. "Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again... Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"

"It was, sir, yes," said Hagrid.

"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?" said Mr. Ollivander, suddenly stern.

"Er - yes, they did, yes," said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. "I've still got the pieces, though," he added brightly.

"But you don't use them?" said Mr. Ollivander sharply.

"Oh, no, sir," said Hagrid quickly. Michael noticed he gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.

"Hmmm," said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. "Well, now - Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

Michael shrugged. "You mean which hand I'll hold the wand in?" he asked. "I'm right handed if that signifies anything."

"Hold out your arm. That's it." Mr. Ollivander measured Michael from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand," he explained as he carried out these measurements.

Michael suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. just take it and give it a wave."

Michael took the wand, looked at it and flicked his wrist lightly. Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try -"

Michael repeated his efforts - but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

"No, no - here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Michael took the wand and almost dropped it as he felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. With a sudden certainty, he described a small circle with the tip and saw a silvery light glow at the tip. The circle he had drawn filled with that silverly light and took a mirrorlike look for a moment before it faded away.

"Yes, indeed," Mr. Ollivander said. "Oh, very good." He put Michael's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper.

Michael paid six galleons and ten sickles for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his shop.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Michael and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Michael didn't speak at all as they walked down the road; he didn't even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the brown owl asleep in its cage on Michael's lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Michael only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder.

"Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves," he said.

He bought Michael a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Michael kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.

"You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet," said Hagrid.

Michael wasn't sure he could explain. He chewed his hamburger, trying to find the words. "Everyone thinks I'm special," he said at last. "And I'm famous, for something I can't even remember. That's going to be _weird_. I think I should have bought some children's book about me so I know what everyone thinks about me."

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows he wore a very kind smile. "Don' you worry, Harry. You'll be just fine. just be yerself. I know it's hard. Yeh've been singled out, an' that's always hard. But yeh'll have a great time at Hogwarts - I did - still do, 'smatter of fact."

Hagrid helped Michael on to the train that would apparently take him back to the Dursleys (which it seemed was a family name, not his uncle's first name), then handed him an envelope.

"Yer ticket fer Hogwarts," he said. "First o' September - King's Cross - it's all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she'll know where to find me... See yeh soon, Harry."

The train pulled out of the station. Michael wanted to watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; he rose in his seat and pressed his nose against the window, but he blinked and Hagrid had gone.

.oOo.

Michael didn't actually go the Dursley's of course. How could he? He didn't have the least idea where they might live. Instead he got off the train at the first town outside London and went shopping for some better clothes than the one he had already. The galleons he'd changed for muggle money turned out to exchange for quite a lot – so he lied about his age at the town's youth hostel and rented a bed for a few days.

For most of the next week he split his time between the hostel's lounge, reading his school books and at the local library, reading whatever else he wanted. During the night, when he was sure he was alone he cried. He missed his Mum and Dad. But he always wiped them away if he thought someone might see them. He was thirteen, not a little boy, and he was pretending to be older. It worked out fairly well he thought, but by the end of the week, even the big wad of money he'd got for the galleons taken from his - Harry's - vault looked like it was going to run out. So he packed up his trunk again and reluctantly went back to London and Diagon Alley.

He spent quite a while in the bookshop next to the Leaky Cauldron, waiting for a family to go into the pub and once he spotted one, he trailed after, them, a cap low over his face. No one paid any attention to him, presuming that he was with the family, and he found it quite easy to nip into the yard and open the arch into Diagon Alley.

Without Hagrid or a shopping list to constrain him, Michael window-shopped from one end of the alley to the other, compiling a list of what he wanted. Then he went to the ice cream shop and went through the list carefully while he ate a huge toffee ice cream sundae. His Mum was always looking to buy special offers and save money whenever she could, so Michael followed her example and used his first list to draw up a second, much smaller list, of the things that he absolutely had to have and where he could get them for the best price.

What he ended up with was more than he'd really wanted to spend but much less than he'd feared he might have to. With a sigh, Michael folded up his list and trotted up the street to Gringotts again.

In the end he managed to get a better deal on a tent than he'd expected to – buying a secondhand item and having a few upgrades fitted worked out cheaper than getting a newer model. The tent, the centrepiece of what he required, was charmed to be invisible to Muggles and was large enough inside to provide just as much comfort, if not more, as the hostel that Michael had been staying at. He'd even managed to trade in his trunk for a rucksack that was larger inside than the outside was, making it much easier for him to carry his stuff around.

.oOo.

On the 30th of August, Michael made an unwelcome discovery. Having looked at the ticket for the first time, making sure that he hadn't lost it, he noticed that he was to take the eleven o'clock train from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Which would be a neat trick, since he was fairly sure that station platforms only came in whole numbers.

He scribbled a hasty enquiry to Hagrid and sent it with his owl, who he'd named Pollyanna after a half-remembered bird in a storybook he'd read a few years before, but Pollyanna hadn't returned by the morning, even though Michael woke up early to wait for her.

Eventually he decided that there was no use waiting around – he'd just have to go to the station himself and work things out from there. He'd prepared the day before so his bag was almost ready – all he had to do was pack away the tent, which took a little longer than he'd expected. Between that and having to find a taxi to take him to King's Cross he reached the station with only half an hour to spare.

Undaunted, he went along the station until he reached Platform Nine and then a little further to Platform Ten. There was no sign of a Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Somehow that didn't surprise Michael very much. He'd have to ask someone.

He stopped a passing guard and explained that he thought someone was having a laugh at him. The guard had never heard of a Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, unless it meant going three-quarters of the way along Platform Nine (which Michael thought might have some potential) and assured Michael that there was no train leaving any platform at eleven o'clock.

With only the stray hope that there was some secret platform somewhere, that was hidden the same way as the entrance to Diagon Alley, Michael set off along Platform Nine and kept his eyes open for any children his age or older who looked like they might be being sent off to school.

Luck appeared to be with him as four boys went past him, pushing cars loaded with trunks not too different from the one that Michael had had. All four boys had flaming red hair, as did the woman behind them and a little girl whose hand she was holding. "- packed with Muggles, of course -" he heard one of them say and paused to watch where they were going. 'Muggles'? That sounded like they might be wizards, which meant that they might well know where he should go, and now that he looked closer, the oldest of the seemed to have a caged owl on top of this trunk.

After a moment's discussion, the oldest boy turned his card and marched towards the barrier between Platform Nine and Platform Ten. A crowd of tourists blocked Michael's line of sight and when he could see again, the boy and his cart were gone.

Hmm, I don't think he could have gone around the barrier without my seeing it, Michael thought. So that must be where the access is. Now if I could just see how it's done…

Two more boys, like enough to each other that they might well be identical twins went for the barrier and this time Michael watched as they simply vanished into thin air as they approached it. There didn't seem to be any particular action, they just went there and then they weren't on the platform anymore.

Reluctantly, Michael decided that he would have to do something that he generally preferred to avoid. It was a compromise on one of his strongest principles but there was nothing else for it. He was going to have to ask for some help.

"Excuse me," Michael said politely to the plump woman. "Do you know where I might find Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?"

"Hello, dear," she said. "First time at Hogwarts? Ron's new, too." She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose.

"Yes," said Michael. "But I don't know how to get onto the platform. I sent a letter to ask but I haven't had a reply."

"Not to worry," she said kindly. "All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash into it, that's very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous. Go on, go now before Ron."

Michael gave her a puzzled look and then turned and trotted dutifully towards the wall. He had second thoughts a moment later, but it was the best option he had available so all he could do was close his eyes and make a note to get his revenge if this was some sort of complicated trick. He was sure that he should have reached the wall by now though...

When he opened them, he saw a scarlet steam engine waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven o'clock. Michael looked behind him and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it. Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. Michael shook his head and began to walk along the platform in search of an empty seat, hoping that the whole train wouldn't be that crowded. Towards the end of the train he spotted a compartment that appeared to be empty and was putting his stuff inside when there was a flutter of wings and Pollyanna flew down to him, a letter clutched in her claws. Michael had to scramble to get Pollyanna's cage out of the bag and get her into it and himself, bag and cage onto the train, a task that would have been a great deal easier if he had had three or four hands instead of the standard issue of two.

"Want a hand?" offered a voice from behind him and he turned to see one of the red-headed twins he'd seen earlier.

"Could you hold this a moment?" Michael asked, passing him the cage. The older boy took the cage, and Michael jammed the letter into his pocket, opened the cage for Pollyanna, then slung his bag up and into the compartment before taking the cage back. "Thanks," he said cheerily. "Right at the worst possible time," he added, tapping the letter and Pollyanna squawked at him. "Not your fault," Michael assured her and put the cage onto the train rather more carefully than he had the bag.

"Hey, George," called the other twin. "What's keeping you?"

"Just helping one of the ickle firsties," George called back.

"George!" called the boys' mother. "Don't you go getting any first years into trouble."

Michael blinked and stuck his head out of the window to see the twins' mother looking at them sternly. "Oh, hello again," he said. "George was helping me get my stuff aboard." Just then a gust of wind blew along the platform and lifted the hair off of his forehead. Michael wasn't really used to his hair falling forwards, he had usually brushed it back from his face but Harry's hair was a lot less co-operative in that respect.

"What's that?" Fred said suddenly, pointing at Michael's forehead and presumably the scar there.

"Blimey," said George. "Are you…?"

"He is," said the Fred excitedly. "Aren't you?" he added.

Michael blinked at them and then realised what they meant. "Er… Hal Potter," he said, cheeks reddening. "Pleased to meet you." He'd decided a little while ago that he'd not go around calling himself Harry – hopefully that would cut back on the people starting at him.

It didn't seem to work very well because the twin chorused: "Harry Potter!" and gawked at him. They weren't alone in that – their younger brother and sister were doing the same and there was something in their mother's expression that suggested that she felt much the same way. Michael went even redder in the face and pulled back into the carriage abruptly.

A whistle sounded and he could hear the boys scrambling for another door. "Hurry up," their mother called and then: "Ginny!" as a small red-headed face appeared at his own door for a moment before the girl was pulled away, presumably by her mother.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath.

Then he closed his own door just before the train began to move and the platform swept away behind him, houses flashing past the window as the train gathered speed. "Well, here I go," Michael said to himself as he settled picked up Pollyanna's cage and climbed onto the seat to rest it on the rack. Then he did the same with his rucksack and sat down to read the letter.

Hagrid apologised profusely for not thinking to tell 'Harry' how to find Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and gave some not entirely coherent directions to follow. With a sigh, Michael folded the letter and tucked it away, making a mental note to look for Hagrid when he got to Hogwarts and assure him that it was alright.

He'd just finished when the door into the passageway that ran along the other side of the carriage opened and the twin's younger brother came in, with his trunk in tow. "Anyone sitting there?" he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Michael. "Everywhere else is full."

Michael shook his head and helped the boy get his trunk settled before they sat back down facing each other. The boy looked at Michael searchingly and then looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn't looked. Michael rolled his eyes.

"Hey, Ron." The twins poked their heads around the door. "Listen, we're going down the middle of the train - Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there."

"Right," mumbled Ron.

"Harry," said the other twin, "did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then.

"Bye," said Michael and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them.

"Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron blurted out.

Michael nodded. "Call me Hal," he said shortly.

"Oh - well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes," said Ron. "And have you really got - you know..." He pointed at Michael's forehead.

With a sigh, Michael pulled back his bangs to show the lightning scar. Ron stared. "So that's where …"

"I suppose," said Michael, "I can't remember it."

"Nothing?" said Ron eagerly.

"Nothing."

"Wow," said Ron. He sat and stared at Michael for a few moments, then, as though he had suddenly realized what he was doing, he looked quickly out of the window again.

"Are all your family wizards?" asked Michael, curiously.

"Er - Yes, I think so," said Ron. "I think Mom's got a second cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him."

Michael nodded. The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding families the pale boy in Diagon Alley had talked about. "That must make life interesting," he said.

Ron shrugged. "Only when Fred and George are up to their tricks. What about you, I heard you went to live with Muggles. What are they like?"

Michael returned the shrug. "Just people," he said. "Not all that different from witches and wizards I suppose, we just use machines where you use magic."

"But you're a wizard too."

"_I_ didn't know that," Michael replied. "I've only known about magic for a few weeks. Seems handy though. Nice to have a bit of money to spend for myself."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked.

"There was some wizard money in my parents' vault," Michael explained. "I figured that I could spare a little for a couple of treats."

"Must be nice," Ron said. "You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat." He reached into his jacket and produced a fat grey rat that was asleep. "His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn't aff-" Ron broke off and his ears went pink. "I mean, I got Scabbers instead," he finished and went back to staring out of the window, avoiding Michael's eyes.

The train had left London now and were passing through rolling hills of green fields, mostly freshly harvested but some with cows or sheep in them. Ron didn't seem inclined to talk about anything so after a few minutes Michael opened his bag and pulled out a paperback novel, opening it at the bookmark to continue reading from where he'd left off, immersing himself in a tale of adventure upon the high seas.

Sometime after what Michael usually considered to be lunchtime and was beginning to wonder how long it would take to get to Hogwarts, there was the clattering of a trolley outside and a woman opened the door, smiled at them and asked "Anything off the cart, dears?"

Michael, who had been regretting not bringing a packed lunch, leapt to his feet, but Ron's ears went pink again and he muttered something about sandwiches. Michael went out into the corridor with the firm intention of getting a square meal off the cart but was left scratching his head a little over the selection available. Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans and Drooble's Best Blowing Gum didn't look too tempting and nor did Licorice Wands. Tentatively he picked out a Pumpkin Pasty and a couple of Cauldron Cakes, as well as a number of Chocolate Frogs, reasoning that chocolate at least, wouldn't be too unusual.

When he went back into the compartment, Ron had taken out a package and unwrapped it to reveal four sandwiches which appeared to have corned beef inside. Michael had never had corned beef before and looked at his Pasty for a moment before offering it to Ron. "Trade you for a sandwich," he offered.

"You don't want this," Ron demurred. "It's all dry. She hasn't got much time, you know, with five of us."

Michael grinned. "I've made sandwiches myself," he said. "And I'm not in any position to complain about dryness. Go on, I've never had Corned Beef before."

After a moment, Ron held out one of the sandwiches and the compartment was filled by the sound of two boys eating their fill of their food. Michael split his second Cauldron Cake with Ron, who was easier about the sharing this time, and then picked up a Chocolate Frog and examined it thoughtfully. "Is this just chocolate?"

"Yes," Ron agreed. "But see what the card is. I'm missing Agrippa."

"Card?"

"Oh, of course, you wouldn't know - Chocolate Frogs have cards, inside them, you know, to collect - famous witches and wizards. I've got about five hundred, but I haven't got Agrippa or Ptolemy."

"Ah," Michael said and nodded his understanding, he'd seen similar ideas before. He unwrapped the Chocolate Frog and studied the card. It showed a man's face. He wore half- moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore.

"Dumbledore," he told Ron. "Have you got him?"

"Yeah," Ron said. "Can I have a Frog? I might get Agrippa."

Michael shoved the chocolate into his mouth and passed over a frog.

On the other side of the card was printed:

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS.

Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

Michael turned the card back over and frowned when it was blank and didn't show Dumbledore's face anymore. "What…?" he muttered, tilting it to see if it was some sort of trick of the light.

"What's wrong?" Ron asked.

Michael held up the card. "Pictureless," he said. "It was there a moment ago."

"Well, you can't expect him to hang around all day," said Ron. "He'll be back. No, I've got Morgana again and I've got about six of her... do you want it? You can start collecting." Ron's eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be unwrapped.

"Help yourself," said Michael with a grin and tossed the card aside. "Not my thing though. Do all wizard pictures move around like that?"

"Sure," Ron answered. "Why? Don't muggle pictures move at all?" Ron sounded amazed. "Weird!" he said when Michael shook his head to confirm that muggle pictures were immobile.


	2. Chapter 2

The rolling hills outside had given way to steep-sided glacial valleys when there was a knock on the door and a round-faced boy entered, looking downcast. "Sorry," he said nervously. "But have you seen a toad at all?"

Ron and Michael shook there heads. "Why?" Michael asked. "Do you need one for something?"

The boy shook his head and wailed. "He was my Dad's and I've lost him! He keeps getting away from me!"

"He'll turn up," said Michael reassuringly.

The boy sniffed and nodded miserably. "Well, if you see him..."

Michael nodded, "We'll let you know," he promised.

"Don't know why he's so bothered," Ron said once the boy was gone. "If I'd brought a toad I'd lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can't talk." He looked down at the rat, who was still fast asleep on Ron's lap. "He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference. I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look..."

The redhead opened his trunk and rummaged around for a moment before producing a rather battered wand that was chipped in places. Michael could have sworn that he could see something white inside the wood and this was confirmed when Ron said: "Unicorn hair's nearly poking out. Anyway…"

Ron had just raised his wand and pointed it at Scabbers when the door to the compartment opened. The roundfaced boy had returned, accompanied by a girl of about the same age who was already wearing the robes that seemed to make up the school uniform. Personally, Michael thought that the robes were rather silly looking but he supposed that the teachers wouldn't like it if he voiced that thought out loud.

"Has anyone seen a toad?" she asked in a bossy voice. Michael didn't like that much, it reminede him of his little sister's – she would be about the same age – and a wave of homesickness went through him. "Neville's lost one," the girl added.

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," Ron told her.

"Oh," the girl said, looking at the wand in Ron's hand. "Are you doing magic? Let's see it, then," she said and sat down.

Ron looked taken aback. "Er -"

"Not exactly magic," Michael said shortly. "Showing me a spell that doesn't work. Was told it would make the rat yellow." He looked over at Ron. "Ready?"

Ron nodded and cleared his throat. "Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow." He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed gray and fast asleep.

Michael nodded. "You're right, your brothers must have been having you on," he said, as if Ron had suspected that all along.

"I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me," the girl said quickly. "Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard - I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough - I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

Michael looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he hadn't learned all the course books by heart either. "I should bloody well hope it's enough," he said. "I certainly haven't memorised them. I'm Hal," he added and jerked his thumb at Ron. "And this is Ron."

"Pleased to meet you," Hermione said. "Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad... Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon." And then she left, with the boy, presumably Neville, who hadn't managed to get a word in edgeways, dragged along in her wake.

"Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," said Ron and threw his wand back into his trunk. "Thanks for covering for me. It was George who gave it to me, bet he knew it was a dud."

"What house is he in?" asked Michael.

"Gryffindor, along with Fred and Percy," said Ron, gloomily. "Mum and Dad were Gryffindors and Charlie and Bill were too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin."

Michael shrugged. "Is it really that important?" he asked. "Hagrid told me about the Houses but it seemed a bit silly." There had been houses at his old school, but they'd not mattered very much at all – he'd barely noticed them in fact.

"You-Know-Who was in Slytherin," said Ron, as if that settled the matter.

"Who?" asked Michael, who knew perfectly well who Ron meant.

"You-Know-Who!" Ron replied louder.

"No… I don't know who," Michael insisted with a twinkle in his eyes.

Ron groaned. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," he said, realising that the previous description had been mistaken for an assertion rather than an answer.

Michael looked sideways at him. "Why not?" he asked. "How am I supposed to know who you mean if you can't use his name?"

"I mean the Dark Lord," Ron hissed, seeming afraid that someone might overhear him.

"Darth Vader was in Slytherin?" Michael asked, barely restraining a chuckle.

Ron noticed and glared at him. "You're having me on," he accused. "You know exactly who I mean."

"Voldemort," Michael said and Ron paled at the word. "Stupid sort of name. His parents must have hated him to call him that. Why didn't they just call him Cecil and be done with it?"

Ron didn't seem any happier about that speculation so Michael changed the subject. "So, I saw Percy, Fred and George on the platform," he said. "So who are Bill and Charlie?"

"My other brothers," Ron explained. "They're older, they don't go to Hogwarts anymore."

"So what do they do?"

"Charlie's in Romania studying dragons, and Bill's in Africa doing something for Gringotts," said Ron. "Did you hear about Gringotts? It's been all over the Daily Prophet, but I don't suppose you get that with the Muggles - someone tried to rob a high security vault."

"What did the goblins do to them?" Michael asked wuth a wince.

"Nothing, that's why it's such big news. They haven't been caught."

Michael choked. "Dear god! The goblins must be _livid_!" he exclaimed.

Ron shrugged. "I guess. My dad says it must've been a powerful Dark wizard to get round Gringotts, but they don't think they took anything, that's what's odd. 'Course, everyone gets scared when something like this happens in case You-Know-Who's behind it."

"Is this the same You-Know-Who we were talking about earlier?" Michael asked sweetly. He grinned at Ron's expression. "Just asking."

"What's your Quidditch team?" Ron asked trying to find a less scary subject to talk about.

Michael chortled at that. "Ron, I heard of Quidditch only a month ago. I've only the vaguest idea what the rules are and I've never, ever, seen it played – even by kids on borrowed brushes -"

"Brooms!" Ron corrected.

"- brooms," Michael conceded mildly. "What on God's green earth leads you to believe I have a Quidditch team?"

"Oh, you wait," Ron assured him. "It's the best game in the world -" And with that, he was off. Encouraged by the nods and encouraging noises that Michael made whenever he paused, he explained the rules and history of Quidditch with a fervor and precision that would have been worthy of a university dissertation. He described every game he'd ever seen, every game he'd ever played with his brothers and every broom that he'd ever dreamed of buying.

Or at least that's what Michael presumed he was saying, since with practised ease he had tuned out everything being said and was thinking happy thoughts to himself about possible ways to abuse the course material. The prospect of duplicating Getafix's Magic Potion in the potions class was particularly appealing.

The two of them were therefore engrossed in their activities when the door opened. Three boys entered, and Michael recognized the middle one at once: it was the pale boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop. He was looking at Michael with a lot more interest than he'd shown back in Diagon Alley.

"Is it true?" he said. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"So they tell me," said Michael laconically. He looked the other two boys over and winced mentally. Both of them were thickset and reminded him of a couple of bullies from his old school. Not too bright, but quite capable of being dangerous if directed, in other words.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," said the pale boy carelessly, noticing where Michael's attention lay. "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Michael gave him a blank look and Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger.

Draco Malfoy looked at Ron and sneered. "Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford." He dismissed Ron from consideration and looked at. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

He held out his hand to shake Michael's, but Michael didn't take it. Instead he simply glanced at it and then back up at Malfoy's face with a neutral expression of curiousity on his face, as if the other boy was nothing more than an animal, or perhaps an insect, that he happened to by studying. He didn't say anything… the look in his eyes said it all and a pink tinge appeared in Malfoy's pale cheeks.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said slowly. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you."

Ron shot to his feet. "Say that again!" he demanded, face flushed with fury.

Malfoy sneered at him. "Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?"

More slowly, Michael rose to his feet, tightening his grip on his own temper. He didn't fancy the idea of fighting the two young behemoths behind Malfoy, but that caution was being steadily eroded by the veiled threat in Malfoy's words. Searching his mind for a example of what to do in that situation, one came to mind and he grimaced. Oh well, might as well. Then he lashed out suddenly and landed his fist clumsily on Malfoy's nose.

The blond boy sat down abruptly, a surprised look on his face. He raised his hand to his nose and when he lowered it, it was stained crimson by blood. "It's bleeding!" he exclaimed. "You made my nose bleed."

"That's what happens in fights," Michael said calmly, as if nothing remarkable had happened at all.

"Why did you hit me?" Malfoy said, tears in his eyes. "No one's ever hit me. I didn't do anything to you."

Michael shrugged. "You were going to," he replied. "Stop being such a baby."

"My nose is still bleeding," Malfoy said still shocked, touching it again. He held out his hand to display the blood, which was also evident on his upper lip. "What if it doesn't stop bleeding?"

"You'll probably die," said Michael in a heartless tone. "Go outside if that happens. I don't want a dead body in here. They smell."

Malfoy blinked at him and then tried to get to his feet. It took two attempts and he only succeeded with the help of Crabbe or Goyle, who had been standing, dumbly astonished by the sudden events. Michael picked up a couple of Chocolate Frogs and tossed them to the boys who promptly let go of Malfoy to catch the treats. Deprived of his support, Malfoy fell to the floor again. Ron, who'd been standing open-mouthed and staring, choked and jammed his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing.

"Pick him up and clean him up," Michael ordered the two larger boys. "He's going to get blood all over his robes."

Deprived of any other instructions, Crabbe and Goyle picked up Draco and half-carried him away.

As soon as the door closed, Ron collapsed into his seat, howling with laughter. Michael sat down opposite him, chuckling himself, although his laugh was higher-pitched and just a little hysterical as the adrenealine rush departed. Then the door opened suddenly and he jumped to his feet. Hermione Granger gave him a perculiar look as she looked at him. "What has been going on?" she asked, looking at Ron, who was still laughing helplessly. "You haven't been fighting, have you? You'll be in trouble before we even get there!"

Michael sat down again and took some deep breaths before answering, then he looked up and her and couldn't help but to burst into peels of laughter as he saw the look on her face.

Hermione went red. "What are you laughing at?" she demanded, but Michael couldn't manage an answer and Ron was no better, rolling about in his seat and gasping for breath.

With a sniff, Hermione turned her back on them. "I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors," she said sniffily. "I know when I'm not welcome." She opened the door and went out. Before closing it, she added: "You'd better hurry up and put your robes on, I've just been up to the front to ask the conductor and he says we're nearly there." Then she closed the door on them.

Michael looked out the window and saw that the sun had almost set, leaving the sky a spectacular purple. The train was passing mountains and forests now and it seemed to him that it was beginning to slow down. "She's right," he said. "Let's put the silly things on then."

They both retrieved their robes – Ron from his trunk and Michael from his rucksack - and pulled them on over their jeans and sweaters before bundling their coats away into their luggage. Ron's robes were a bit shorter on him than Michael's and his trainers were visible beneath them.

No sooner had they done this than a voice echoed down the train. Michael spent a moment looking for the speakers, then realised that it was magic and felt rather foolish. "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time," the voice said. "Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

Yeah right, Michael snorted to himself and pulled his pack down from the rack, shoving his arms through the straps. Ron looked at him oddly. "Didn't you hear them say to leave your luggage on the train?"

Michael shook his head. "Everything I own in the entire world - well, except for the vault at Gringotts – is in this bag. I'd not letting it out of my sight until I know it's going to be somewhere secure."

Ron's jaw dropped. "What… everything? You don't have _anything_ else?"

"It's bigger inside than outside," Michael reassured him and opened the door to join the throng of students forming in the corridor that ran along the length of the train.

"You're not leaving anything at home? At all?"

Michael snorted. "Home?" He shook his head. "No."

The train was definitely slowing now and it came to rest against a small, dark platform that looked like hundreds of other small English train stations – nothing more than a narrow strip of paving backed by a black-painted wooden fence. The crowd poured out onto the platform and Michael hugged his robes against himself as protection from the cold wind. At one end of the platform a lantern was being held above head hight by someone and then Michael heard a familiar voice: "Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry?" He turned and saw Hagrid's face illuminated by the lantern

The big man beamed as he saw Michael plough through the crowd towards him. "C'mon, follow me," he ordered. "Any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

The path was narrow and went down quite a steep slope so Michael was hard pressed to keep from stumbling as he followed Hagrid. The fact that he was more encumbered than the other first years made it relatively more difficult and he got a few odd looks when people realised he was still carrying a bag. Neville, who was walking ahead of Michael and Ron was sniffling a little and Michael hurried his pace to put his hand encouragingly on the boy's shoulder. "It'll work out," he he said reassuringly.

"Thanks," muttered Neville, who didn't seem to be very much happier.

Hagrid halted at a bend in the path and called back over his shoulder: "Ye' all get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec, jus' round this bend here."

The little crowd followed him around the bend and there was a massed gasp as they did indeed see Hogwarts. They were looking across a huge black lake that dominated the floor of a great valley. Precisely opposite them, rising up the flank of the mountain that made up the other side of the valley was a huge castle, a mass of turrets and towers that made Michael's feet itch with an urge to walk the passages and courtyards of the vast building. He'd seen castles before, he and his father were rather fond of tramping around the ruins of long-ago fortresses and monasterys, but this was on another scale entirely and to make it better, this was an inhabited castle – the lights from its many windows made that obvious.

Hagrid pointed to the waters edge where a number of small boats were floating only a few inches from the shore. "No more'n four to a boat!" he called and Michael and the others bustled forwards to claim their places.

Michael, with his back in his back, was rather more bulky than most of the first years and with he and Ron aboard a boat it already felt quite crowded. Hermione and Neville both tried to get in but looked rather dubious as to whether the boat would manage. Finally Hermione went to one of the other boats and Neville scrambled aboard.

"Everyone in?" Hagrid asked loudly. He was too big to share a boat with anyone – as it was his boat rode noticably lower in the water than any of the others. "Right then - FORWARD!" In response, the boats immediately began to move away from the shore and towards the castle. The water was absolutely still, Michael couldn't even see ripples from the boats, and the castle above was reflected perfectly in the water beneath them as they moved towards the cliff that Hogwarts sat upon.

As the first boats reached the cliff Hagrid yelled, "Heads down!" and they entered a low dark tunnel, the boats pushing past a curtain of ivy that hid the tunnel from outside and into the darkness. Ahead Michael could see lights and they eventually reached a large chamber that seemed to function as a harbour, the boats grinding ashore onto a small beach. The children scrambled out of the boats and up the beach to the doors. Hagrid plucked something out of one boat and looked around. "Has anyone lost a toad?" he asked loudly.

"Trevor!" Neville called joyfully and Hagrid placed the toad carefully in the round-faced boy's outstretched hands before leading the first years up a passageway that had been carved out of the rock. The other end was on a lawn around the outside of the castle and another stair, this one rising along the outer wall to a huge wooden door reinforced with iron bars. "Everyone here?" Hagrid asked, counting heads. "Right then." He raised his hand and knocked three times against the door.

At once the door opened to reveal a tall woman in green robes, a witch, her hair black and pinned back in a severe bun. Unlike Hagrid's genial air, she seemed very stern and Michael shuffled his feet nervously.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid told her.

The witch, Professor McGonagall, opened the door wide to reveal a huge entrance hall, as large as house. "Thank you, Hagrid," she said. "I will take them from here."

Inside the hall Michael could see a huge marble staircase leading up to the floors above them. The ceiling itself was too high for him to see at all, it blended into the shadows. The hall was lit only by flaming torches not unlike those that Michael had seen at Gringotts. He wondered if those were the standard of the Wizarding lighting – he suspected that he'd prefer a decent set of electric bulbs.

Professor McGonagall led them into a small side room rather than through the doors that faced the stairs, although Michael could hear the sounds of many voices from the other side of those doors and was sure that the other students must be within.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall began as the first years clustered together nervously in front of her. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room."

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours."

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting." She didn't pick out anyone as particularly needing to 'smarten up' but most of the children, in a fit of paranoia began to adjust their clothes and rub at possible stains, Michael included. "I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly."

Professor McGonagall left and Michael looked over at Ron. "She didn't say what we'd have to do in the Sorting Ceremony," he said in a worried voice.

Ron was pale. "Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."

Michael considered that. "Well," he muttered. "If it does hurt a lot, I reckon we'd know before they got to us, they'll probably have us go in alphabetical order. If it comes to a pinch I'm pretty sure we could make a run for it."

"But then we'd not be allowed to enter Hogwarts," Ron protested.

"Um," Michael said thoughtfully. "Yeah, that would be a problem, wouldn't it?"

Their conversation was cut off when a small horde of ghosts swept through the wall of the chamber, apparently oblivious to the first year students beneath them. Michael was almost oblivious to what they were saying as he looked at them in their archaic costumes, all transclucent pearly white in colour. He was brought back from his bemused thoughts by a sharp voice from the door. "Move along now," Professor McGonagall told the ghosts sharply. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start." One by one the ghosts drifted away through the wall that Michael thought would take them to where the rest of the school were waiting.

"Now form a line," the witch instructed, speaking to the first years this time. "And follow me."

Obediently, the group sorted themselves out, Michael standing behind Ron, and trooped after McGonagall, out into the entrance hall and through the double doors that Michael had surmised led to the rest of the students. He had been right.

The Great Hall was gigantic, dwarfing the Entrance Hall easily, and was far better lit with thousands of candles floating above the four long tables that stretched almost from one end of the hall to the other and above what seemed to be the night sky. Only after looking carefully could Michael see that there was a ceiling and that the image of the sky was simply an illusion of some kind. Students, scores and scores of them were sitting at the tables and at the far end of the room another table ran from one side to the other with witches and wizards who must be teachers seated behind it. All the tables were set with golden plates and dishes and the part of Michael was baffled by the ostentatious display. Ghosts drifted about above the other occupants, but they, like the older students, were all looking at the first years.

Then their gazes moved to Professor McGonagall and Michael watched as she silently placed a small stool in front of the first years, who were now lined up along the bottom end of the hall. On top of the stool the Professor placed a rather battered pointed hat, patched, frayed and with a patina of dirt that Michael suspected would be very difficult to get rid of. It only needed the addition of a little glitter and the word 'Wizzard' to have belonged to Rincewind and Michael felt obscurely comforted by that fact. For a moment there was absolute silence and then, entirely on its own, the hat moved. For a moment Michael thought he was imagining it, but he soon realised that he was not, for a rip near the brim of the hat opened and the hat began to, of all things, sing!

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can't see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffis are true And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

if you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin

You'll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means

To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don't be afraid!

And don't get in a flap!

You're in safe hands (though I have none)

For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.

"So we've just got to try on the hat!" Ron whispered to Michael. "I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."

Michael grunted something that even he wasn't sure he could interpret. Once he got over his nerves in the entrance hall he had been pretty sure that the Sorting wouldn't be too difficult – they'd been getting students here for years after all and trying on a hat was a great deal easier than most of the possibilites he'd been hearing proposed by the other students. On the other hand, he'd never liked it when teams were picked for sports – he was generally among the last chosen, which was a fairly rotten feeling at best. Still, it sounded from the song as if Ravenclaw might be the sort of place he'd fit in well.

Professor McGonagall produced a long roll of parchment and opened it out to read from it. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she instructed sternly. "Abbott, Hannah!"

Hannah, who was mostly distinguishable from the rest of the group by her blonde pigtails, stumbled forward and put on the had, which had obviously been sized for someone much larger as it sank down over her face and covered her eyes entirely. After a moment the rip near the brim opened again and shouted: "HUFFLEPUFF!"

One after another, more students followed Hannah, being sorted into Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin and Gryffindor. No one seemed to be rejected, which was something of a relief to Michael since he'd have a hell of a job getting into a school anywhere else at this point. Living on his own had burnt his bridges a bit.

"Granger, Hermione!" called Professor McGonagall

Hermione went to the stool eagerly and whipped the hat onto her head. Immediately the hat shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!" and Ron groaned.

Michael chuckled. "How's Slytherin sounding now?" he asked in a whisper.

Ron just shook his head in denial.

A crash from in front of them drew their attention back to Neville, who had fallen over on the way to the stool. Michael winced at that. It wasn't so much the pain as the thought of doing a pratfall in front of the entire school. Ouch. The boy sat for quite a long time with the hat on his head before finally shouting "GRYFFINDOR!" Neville promptly capped his previous feat by forgetting to remove the hat before he ran for the Gryffindor table and had to run back with it so that a girl called Morag MacDougal could be sorted.

Malfoy, on the other hand, was sorted into Slytherin almost before the hat touched his head. Judging by his swagger as he walked to and from the stool, if he had had any doubts about the outcome they were well buried. His two friends from the train had already been sorted into the House, so he sat between them.

Well, Slytherin wasn't looking too promising now, Michael noted. Ah well, he wasn't going to wind up there if he had the choice anyway.

After a few more sortings, he realised that the last few surnames called had begun with P and listened for the call of: "Potter, Harry!"

As Michael moved out from the crwod of first years and went to the stool he could hear whispering around the hall in response to the name. "Potter, did she say?" said one of the nearer voices. "_The_ Harry Potter?" He could see people shuffling around to get a better look at him and rolled his eyes before Professor McGonagall, after annoyed look at him for keeping his bag on him, put the hat on his head, where it fell over most of his face and obscured his view.

"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear and Michael flinched before he realised that it was the hat. "You're an interesting one, aren't you? Are you sure that you're Harry Potter?"

Not really, Michael thought. In fact, I've only Hagrid's word for it that I'm this kid who stopped Voldemort. I wonder how anyone knows what happened anyway… from what that book I bought said Harry Potter was the only survivor and would have been far too young to give any sort of account.

"Very strange," the hat muttered. "Not a bad mind and some talent for sneaking I see. Not short of courage either."

Ravenclaw please, Michael thought.

"Ravenclaw, eh? Yes, you could do well there," the voice decided. "Very well then, make it: RAVENCLAW!"

The last word had been shouted to the whole hall, so Michael reckoned that he'd been well and truly sorted and removed the hat. With a certain sense of satisfaction, he walked to the bottom of Ravenclaw table and sat down, ignoring the frenzied cheering from further up the table although he did let a few of the students shake his hands when they tried to.

Resting his rucksack on the floor next to him, right at the end of the table, Michael lookied up at the head table and saw Hagrid at the far end, who gave him a friendly thumbs-up. Michael nodded his head in response and looked along the table, spotting the wizard from the Chocolate Frog card sat in a large golden chair right in the centre. Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts. Further along was Professor Quirell, who looked quite ridiculous wearing a purple turban.

Ron, unsurprisingly was almost the last person to be sorted although Michael absently congratulated two girls who were sorted into Ravenclaw in the interim. The redheaded boy looked a little green as he walked to the Hat, but it had no sooner been put on his head than it shouted: "GRYFFINDOR!" Michael applauded as Ron walked over to join his brothers at the Gryffindor table and Professor McGonagall rolled up the scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.

Up at the head table Professr Dumbledore got to his feet and beamed at the assembeld students, spreading his arms wide to express his apparent delight at their presence. "Welcome," he said in a voice that carried to every corner of the Hall. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

Michael blinked at the bizarre speech and then saw that the golden dishes on the table, previously empty, were now piled high with food. Now that was a form of magic that he would definitely like to learn. The moment anyone made a move for the food, he did likewise, filling his plate with roast potatoes, roast beef, roast chicken, bacon and carrots, then poured a thick layer of rich gravy over them before tucking in. The food was excellent and after a month of eating little more than homemade sandwiches and fast food it was a great relief to have a real meal.

He'd only managed three large helpings before the food faded away from the serving dishes, leaving them perfectly clean, another nice trick that would have helped Michael a lot over the summer. Then desserts appeared and Michael managed, just barely, to find room for a slice of apple pie and a bowl of trifle.

Although Michael had not contributed anything to the conversations around him he'd still been aware of them and when the other first-years began comparing their wizarding blood his ears pricked up. Two of the girls – Morag McDonald and an indian girl called Padma Patil were both from wizarding familes and Terry Boot and Lisa Turpin, the first and last students sorted into Ravenclaw this year had two muggle parents. The other students were all mixes with muggle or muggle-born parents the same as Harry had.

As Michael helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk turned to their families. Most of the Ravenclaws were from mixed backgrounds – parents or grandparents had been muggles – as Harry Potter apparently was. Halfblood, it was called. Two of the girls were purebloods – wizards and witches on both sides for as far back as anyone could remember, and one boy and one girl were the first in their family to show any magic, although the girl, Lisa Turpin, told them that once Professor McGonagall had visted her parents to explain about magic to them, they rather thought that her little sister Lydia might be a witch as well.

"She's always playing with mum's knick-knacks," Lisa explained, "and she's dropped dozens of them but somehow they never break and they're really flimsy little things, you know?"

Feeling very full (he'd made a bit of a pig of himself, he admitted privately) and sleepy, Michael yawned and put his head on his folded arms, pushing the plates back and out of his way. With his head turned to the left he could still see the high table. Quirell, still wearing the turban on his head, had turned around to speak to the wizard sat next to him, a pale man with long black hair and a hooked nose. After a moment the other man turned away from Quirell and his eyes met with Michael's.

A sudden sharp pain ran through the scar on Michael's forehead. He yelped – as much surprised as pained and broke eye contact, rubbing at the scar.

"Are you alright?" asked one of the older girls at the table, Penelope Clearwater. She'd introduced herself as a Prefect earlier.

"Yeah," Michael said, fully awake again. The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Michael had gotten from the teacher's look - a feeling that he didn't like Michael at all. "Who's the man Professor Quirell was talking to?" he asked.

Penelope looked over. "The man in black?" she asked. "That's Professor Snape, he'll be teaching you potions. He'd very grouchy – he really wants to teach the Defense Against Dark Arts course but Professor Dumbledore hired Professor Quirrell instead."

.oOo.

Eventually the dinner drew to a close and when no one could possibly eat any more, the dishes were once again left clean and at the head table Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet once more and an expectant silence fell across the Hall. He cleared his throat and announced: "Just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." His eyes were twinkling as he looked at the lower end of the Gryffindor table.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors."

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch."

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Michael blinked. "Did he just say what I think he just said?" he asked no one in particular.

"Very painful death?" Morag said from across the table. "He's not serious is he?"

"Presumably," Penelope told them. "I don't know why though, which is odd because he usually tells the Prefects at least."

"And now," Dumbledore cried enthusiastically, "before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" Quite a number of the teachers cringed at that remark. Undaunted, Dumbledore flicked his wand and a a long golden ribbon shot out of the end, curling to display the words of the song. "Everyone pick their favorite tune," he said. "and off we go!"

Michael, never the most musical of people, understood instantly the responses of the teachers as without further ado almost every student at the tables began to sing. It was possible that there were some good singers at the school but it was hard to tell in the cacophony.

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

Teach us something please,

Whether we be old and bald

Or young with scabby knees,

Our heads could do with filling

With some interesting stuff,

For now they're bare and full of air,

Dead flies and bits of fluff,

So teach us things worth knowing,

Bring back what we've forgot,

just do your best, we'll do the rest,

And learn until our brains all rot.

Naturally, the song tailed off as one after another the students came to the end of their own versions. The last to finish were the Weasley twins, who were singing as if it were a dirge. Dumbledore seemed to appreciate the song and waved his wand as if conducting them until they were done and then lowered the wand to clap loudly. "Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

Penelope led the Ravenclaw first years through the crowds of older students, out of the Great Hall and then up the huge marble staircase. The route to the Ravenclaw rooms seemed to be quite convulouted but Michael was too tired to pay any great attention to it, concentrating instead on following whoever was in front of him. At the end of a long corridor they reached the portrait of a very old wizard who seemed to be asleep in a library of some sort. He opened one eye as they approached and looked at Penelope wearily. "Password," he requested quietly.

"This can truly be said," Penelope replied and the portrait slid to one side, revealing a doorway that led down a few steps into the Ravenclaw common room, a round and cozy room with the walls lined by bookshelves and dozens of comfy looking couches upholstered in blue. Penelope directed the four first-year boys through the door to their dormitory and as they went through it Michael heard her guide the girls through another door.

The door led to a spiral staircase and at the top of what was evidently one of the castle's many towers, they found the first year dormitory. There were four large beds, four-posters with thick drapes of blue velvet around them, and three of them had school trunks at the foot of them. Michael went to the other bed and placed his bag at the foot of it.

"Why don't you have a trunk," asked Anthony curiously.

"Too much bother," Michael yawned back and removed his robes. "I'm not carrying around a great sodding trunk if I don't have to."

With that said, he removed the rest of his clothes, slipped into his pyjamas and lipped under the covers of the bed, closing his eyes. Almost at once, he went to sleep.

.oOo.

Michael scowled as he walked to his classes the next morning. Students lining up to enter classrooms would turn to look at him as he passed and he was sure that a few people were going out of their way to go past him more than once. It was gettign on his nerves, particularly since the layout of the castle was ridiculously confusing. There were hundreds of staircases all of them different and some of them didn't always lead to the same places. Added to that, at least two were trying to catch students by vanishing steps when you were stood on them. The doors were worse and he couldn't even use the portraits and suits of armour as landmarks because they seemed to move around as well, although at least the portraits were up front about it.

Even the staff weren't reliable help. Michael had tried to ask the caretaker, an angry looking man called Argus Filch for directions and the man took the opportunity to threaten to lock Michael away in the dungeons. Only the arrival of Professor Quirrell resolved that little crisis, but the Defense Against Dark Arts teacher stuttered too much to give anything approaching coherent directions.

And then there were the ghosts, especially Peeves the Poltergeist…

By the time that Michael reached his first class he was fuming. Fortunately he didn't have to do or say much – the Herbology class was in the greenhouses at the back of the castle and he managed to blend into the back of the crowd fairly well. The teacher, Professor Sprout, had enough to do teaching everyone how to take care of the various plants and fungi that Michael had never heard of, so as long as he listened and did what he was told she was content to leave him alone.

The last class that the first year Ravenclaws had on that first day was Potions. Michael had been looking forward to that somewhat. He had found chemistry to be somewhat interesting and rather hoped that Potions would be like that except with more magical effects and results. His first look at the classroom – which was located down in the dungeons – made it clear that Potions would be a rather less pleasant experience than he'd hoped for.

His expectations were further lowered by the actions of the teacher. So far as he was aware he'd never met the man before the feast, but it quickly became obvious that he'd been right in his guess that Professor Severus Snape had some serious issues with regard to Harry Potter.

Professor Snape started the class by taking the register paused at the name 'Harry Potter'. "Ah, Yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new… celebrity." Michael confirmed his presence and Snape continued calling the rest of the names before he looked up at the class with cold, dark eyes.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," he told them, speaking in barely more than a whisper. None the less he was clearly audible, the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students remaining absolutely silent, intimidated by his hostile attitude. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Michael raised his eyebrow, concluding that the Professor was apparently something of a drama queen when it came to his subject. He folded his hands under his chin and looked up at Snape, waiting for the man to continue.

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Michael frowned. He recalled the ingredients from the potions textbook but couldn't recall which potions used both of them. After rubbing his chin for a moment he shook his head. "Sorry Professor," he said. "I don't know."

Snape tutted, his lips curling into a nasty sneer. "Fame clearly isn't everything," he said, ignoring the hands of Padma, Terry and Morag, all of whom seemed confident that they knew the answer. "Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Michael narrowed his eyes, wondering what had led the Professor to single him out. Something about this ridiculous Boy-Who-Lived business? "In the stomach of a goat, Professor," he said quietly, lowering his hands to the table and meeting Snape's eyes squarely.

"Is that so?" Snape asked sarcastically.

"Unless you mean where in the storage cupboards, sir," Michael said before he could restrain himself.

"You're not here to make jokes, Potter," Snape snapped. "A point from Ravenclaw. Perhaps you can win it back though. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane."

"There's no difference, Professor," Michael replied immediately and Snape scowled at him. Unsurprisingly, he made no move to return the point to Ravenclaw.

"For your information, Potter, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death," he sanpped and then turned to the rest of the class. "Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

Those of the class who hadn't made a note of the questions and the answers rushed to take the information down and the dungeon room was filled by the scratch of quill against parchment. Michael flipped open the spiral notepad he'd written 'Potions' on the front of earlier and clicked the end of his biro before scribbling the information that Snape had told him about the Draught of Living Death.

"What are you doing, Potter?" demanded Snape.

"Taking notes, Professor," Michael said politely.

Snape snatched the biro away from him. "This is no place for your muggle toys, Potter. That's another point from Ravenclaw." He threw the pen away into a corner of the room. "You will take your notes with a quill and parchment, as if you were a civilised wizard."

The rest of the class went no better for the Ravenclaws or the Hufflepuffs. They were split into pairs by Snape and assigned to brew a simple potion that would apparently cure boils while the Professor swept around the class in his black cloak and made a nuisance of himself by criticising everyone venomously once the criticism was too late to actually be of any help. Michael was morally certain that it was this hazing that so unnerved Ernie MacMillan – an earnest and sincere Hufflepuff student working at the next table over – that he made a small mistake with his cauldron.

The first Michael knew of it was when a sudden hissing sound heralded the clouds of acrid green smoke that came pouring from Ernie's cauldron. A moment later the cauldron collapsed as the contents ate their way through the pewter and Ernie barely managed to escape onto his stool before the potion did something nasty to his feet. Michael and most of the other students had to take refuge as well as the potion began to spread over the floor.

"Wretched brat," Snape snarled as he waved his wand to clear away the potion from the floor. "You're supposed to take the cauldron off the fire before you add the porcupine quills." He wheeled upon Michael, who had been partnered with Michael Corner for the brewing. "You – Potter – why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Trying to cost Hufflepuff to make up for the one you lost, were you? That's another point you've cost Ravenclaw."

Michaels lips thinned and his eyes narrowed but he said nothing. Snape glared at him and then, seeming vaguely dissatisfied by something, stalked off to harass someone else.

An hour later, Michael was the last student to leave the dungeon, having meticulously restored all his possessions to his bag, with the exception of the pen that had gotten lost, presumably forever, in some dark corner of the potions classroom. Snape glared at him as he left and Michael returned the look with lidded eyes.

War had been declared.

.oOo.

Fortunately, Potions was the only lesson where Michael had to deal with that particular problem. He made a mental note to study up on that subject in his spare time – forcing Snape to give him good grades would be a definite victory if he could pull it off. The other classes proved far more managable and he enjoyed most of them thoroughly. (the princiapl exception being Astronomy – Michael was as space mad as the next boy but having to stay up past midnight to peer through a telescope was a rather unpleaseant experience for someone who was such an early riser by habit.

Charms was taught by Professor Flitwick, the head of Ravenclaw, and was the most directly useful class to Michael's mind – it was the basis for most of the wandwork after all. Once Flitwick got over the presence of 'Harry Potter' (he fell off his chair the first time he read the name off the register) the tiny wizard quickly demonstrated that he had a superb grasp of both the theory and practise of magic. Michael felt quite challenged there – his grasp of the waving of the wand was quite shaky compared to rest of the class.

History of Magic was easily the most boring class – Professor Binns could have represented his country if boring people to sleep was an olympic event. As it was, he droned away at the front of the class and Michael eventually settled on ignoring him completely to study on his own. Since he did this in the class it didn't cut into his free time at all and Wizarding history was quite interesting if, rather than simply trying to regurgitate the facts, you wondered about _why_ the Goblins kept rebelling and _how_ the elitist pureblooded families had come into being.

Defense Against Dark Arts was just as bad – Quirell was far too nervous to be any actual use at teaching, although he was quite entertaining prey for the sceptical questions of his students. Of course, if he really had fallen afoul of a vampire in Romania, then the garlic that festoned the classroom (and probably filled his turban to boot) was an understandable precaution. However, judging by Quirell's evasiveness whenever someone asked about his supposed feats (his claim that the turban was the gift of an African prince who he had saved from a zombie was possibly the most ridiculous), it was likely that the vampire was as imaginary as Snape's good nature.

It was Thursday before Michael finally figured out how to find his way to the Great Hall without getting lost en route. He celebrated by stacking his plate high and devoured a stack of bacon and eggs with relish. "What class do we have first today?" Li Su, one of the first year girls in Ravenclaw asked as she sat opposite to him.

"Double Transfiguration," Michael replied. "With Professor McGongall and, if I recall correctly, we're paired with Gryffindor this time."

Fortunately the Head of Gryffindor was very different from the Head of the rival House. While firm with the students she was also scrupulously evenhanded. Even the lecture she gave to introduce her subject had a very different tone from Snape's.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she told them. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

As a demonstration, she transformed her desk into a pig and let it wander around for a moment before reversing the change and floating the desk back into position. The class was impressed, obviously, although their enthusiasm faded a little once they realised that such a large and complex transfiguration was outside their abilities and would be for quite a while.

The class started with the theory, which was rather complex but did explain a few things in Michael's point of view, including some very interesting tidbits he picked up on about where magic and scientific theory differed and where they agreed. The practical side of the class involved turning a matchstick into a needle. Only one student managed to make some changes (the Granger girl Michael had met on the train) but even she didn't manage the complete transfiguration and the others, like Michael, didn't manage anything at all.

.oOo.

The next day was Friday and Michael barely looked up as the mail arrived – scores of owls swooping through the high windows clutching packages or letters. Today was unusual however because it was the first time that he had seen Pollyanna among them, although he often dropped by the owlery to give her a treat. He'd been a bit lukewarm about having a pet at first, but the owl had grown upon him.

The owl dropped a note onto Michael and he blinked and snatched it out of the air while she fluttered around and settled onto his shoulder. Absently he broke off some toast for her and flattened the rather crumpled note against the table to read it. In Hagrid's characteristic scribblings it said:

Dear Hal,

I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a cup of tea with me around three?

I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with Pollyanna.

Hagrid

Michael pulled out a pen and scribbled an affirmative response on the back of the note. Passing it to Pollyanna, he said: "Take this to Hagrid please." Then he finished his breakfast and went to see Ron, who was still eating. He'd not seen much of the Weasley since they arrived and maybe he'd like to go and meet Hagrid.


	3. Chapter 3

A little after three o'clock, Michael and Ron left Hogwarts castle and walked down towards the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid's cabin was made of wood and nestled under the eaves of the trees that formed the edge of the forest and although quite small and shabby it was scaled to him, which made it quite large for two eleven year old boys.

After hesitating a moment, Michael rapped his knuckles against the door and several booming barks exploded from within, a sound that was joined by claws scrabbling at the far side of the door and Hagrid shouting at 'Fang' to get back. Michael winced. He wasn't an animal lover – and detested having then jump on him, which the cats and dogs belong to various relatives were always glad to do.

After a few moments of this the door opened a crack and Hagrid could be seen behind it, one large hand gripping the collar of a dog that could have eaten every single pet Michael had ever had to endure, and still have had room for lunch. "Hang on," the huge gamekeeper said, "Back, Fang," he added to the dog, who appeared to possess the ancestral urges of all animals to lightly maul Michael. Grudgingly the black beast retreated enough for Hagrid to admit two of them.

The cabin had only one room – there was a vast bed in one corner, an open fire in the middle of the floor (a copper kettle was hung above it and the contents were boiling to jdge by the steam pouring from it) and from the ceiling hung dozens of hams and pheasants. Hagrid appeared to do quite well for himself foodwise.

"Make yerselves at home," the proud host said, releasing Fang once the door was closed. Promptly the dog bounded over to Michael and bowled him over before licking vigorously at his ears. After the initial pantwetting terror passed, the sensation was merely gorssly unpleaseant and Michael managed to introduce Ron to Hagrid and vice-versa.

"Another Weasley?" Hagrid asked, obviously familiar with the family's characteristics. "I spend half me life chasin' yer twin brothers away from the forest."

He offered them both rock cakes – shapeless lumps of bread with raisins hard enough to break teeth on. Both boys pretended to enjoy them, nibbling cautiously at the softer spots as they told Hagrid about the lessons they'd had that week and the classmates they'd shared them with. Michael tried to ignore the drool that Fang was layering onto the knees of his robes.

Hagrid didn't seem any fonder of Filch than they were, probably because as groundskeeper he was more exposed to the man's personality (and it's manifold defects) than the rest of the staff. His fondness for animals didn't extend to the man's cat either: "I'd like ter introduce her to Fang sometime," he confided. "D'yeh know, every time I go up ter the school, she follows me everywhere? Can't get rid of her - Filch puts her up to it."

He also said that Snape hardly liked any of the other students so there probably wasn't anything personal about the way he'd acted in the class.

"It seemed quite personal to me," Michael growled.

"Rubbish!" said Hagrid. "Why should it be?" he asked, but he wouldn't quite meet Michael's eyes when he said that. "How's yer brother Charlie?" Hagrid asked Ron, changing the subject. "I liked him a lot - great with animals."

Ron began telling Hagrid what he knew about Charlie's work with dragons and Michael, who'd already heard that story, looked around absently, spotting what looked like an article cut out of a newspaper. Picking up the paper he saw that that was precisely what it was.

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST

Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.

Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.

"But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.

Michael grinned. He could almost picture one of the goblins at the bank saying those words to some pushy reported. Then he frowned, doublechecking the date on the paper. "Damn," he muttered. The other two broke off their conversation to stare at him. "Sorry," he said, realising that he'd cursed outloud. "Remember that break in at Gringotts?" he asked Ron. "It was the same day Hagrid took me there. Bit of a coincidence."

"Yeh, it was a good thing…" Hagrid said and then clapped his hand over his mouth. "I shouldna ha' said that," he mumbled.

"Good thing?" Michael asked.

"Never you mind," Hagrid told him, but Michael was already thinking about how one vault had definitely been emptied that particular day – the one that Hagrid had visited. And that was much more of a coincidence that the break-in being the day when Michael had first gone to Gringotts.

.oOo.

After several classes that he had to share with Draco Malfoy (Ravenclaw and Slytherin were paired for both Herbology and Charms) Michael was glad to see that Gryffindor would have the dubious pleasure of the little snot's company once flying lessons began as Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff would be paired up in the afternoon once the other two houses had had a go.

Malfoy, apparently considered himself something of a dab hand with a broomstick, and talked incessently about it during meals. Since Michael wasn't about to leave his back to the slimy little creature he made a habit of sitting on the far side of the Ravenclaw where he could at least keep an eye on him. As a result, he was witness to endless complaints that first years weren't allowed on the Quidditch teams and long, boastful stories about narrow escapes involving helicopters. From the descriptions it was obvious that Malfoy had never seen a helicopter since most of his 'feats' would have been evident folly to anyone with the slightest idea of how dangerous they could be.

Of course, Draco Malfoy was not the only student who seemed fascinated by flying and Quidditch – just about every student, male and female, who hadn't been raised entirely muggle could talk endlessly on the topics. It was worse than football had been at either of Michael's previous schools. By the morning when flying lessons would begin, wild claims had been flying around all four House tables. Michael had patiently sat through Ron's lecture on the subject on the Hogwarts Express and now he patiently endured the saga of Ron's encounter with a hang glider, which was at least a little more plausible than Malfoy's little flight of fantasy.

The few students who hadn't been on a broomstick were more or less evenly spilt between those who were keen to have a go and those who were nervous. Michael would not hesitate to count himself among the latter, although he did get a good laugh out of mentioning the flights to and from the Isle of Man when he was five. That had been on an aeroplane of course, but the matter of fact tone in which he dismissed it as 'rather boring' got right up Draco's nose.

When lunch rolled around, that day, Michael was surprised to see that Neville Longbottom wasn't evident at the Gryffindor table and Malfoy was strutting and looking smug. Rather than sitting down at the Ravenclaw table, Michael went over the Gryffindors. "What happened?" he asked Ron drily.

The redhead rolled his eyes. "Neville fell off his broom," he said. "He broke his wrist. And Malfoy ran off with the Rememberall Neville's gran sent him this morning."

"Neville's gran sent Malfoy a Rememberall?" Michael asked. "What's a Rememberall, anyway?"

"She sent it to Neville," Ron explained. "It's a little glass thing – it goes red if you've forgotten something."

"Ah," Michael said understanding. His gran was – had been – always rather miffed if he forgot about birthdays or the like. Doubtless, Mrs Longbottom was trying to 'subtly' hint that Neville wasn't meeting her expectations in that area. Then Michael frowned. "What did Malfoy do with it?"

"He hid it somewhere," Ron said. "Otherwise we'd be able to get it back for him."

Michael shrugged. "Oh, that's quite easily solved," he said. "Hang fire a moment."

Turning around he walked past the Hufflepuff table, and then past the Ravenclaw table, aware that eyes at the bottom of the Gryffindor table were fixed on him.

"So, Draco," he said cheerily. "Reduced to petty theft are you? Malfoy coffers a little dry? Don't think a Rememberall will raise all that much though – couple of weeks worth of sweeties at most, the way you go through them."

All this was said quite loudly and clearly, with the effect that almost half the Great Hall went absolutely silent and the older students also began to quiet as they wondered what had happened at the other end of the room.

Malfoy went red in the face. "I'm not a thief!" he snapped. "And there's nothing at all wrong with the Malfoy money!"

"There's just not as much of it as there used to be," Michael responded with feigned sympathy. "Now be a good little boy and return what you've nicked – all of it," he added as an afterthought. "You wouldn't want anyone to have to go through your stuff to check, who knows how many bits of 'missing' property might have gotten there by some totally innocent circumstance."

There was a screech from one of the Slytherin girls. "My earring!" she shrieked. "I thought I'd just lost it – give it back Malfoy!"

"I haven't got your stupid earring!" the boy snarled, turning upon her with a furious expression on his face.

"What is going on here!" Professor McGonagall snapped, having come down along the table to find the source of the disturbance.

"Potter's calling me thief!" Malfoy shouted.

"You took Neville Longbottom's Rememberall this morning," Michael said patiently. "It doesn't belong to you, Draco, and that's called theft. Don't you know anything?"

"Is this true?" McGonagall demanded of Malfoy.

"It is!" the blonde girl who'd mentioned her earring, said, earning glares from her House-mates. "And he must have been taking other things, because my earring went missing a few days ago!"

"I have no idea where your stupid earring is!" Malfoy replied bitterly.

Michael simply smirked and said nothing as Malfoy lost ten points from Slytherin, earned a detention with the Head of Gryffindor and was taken away by Professor Snape to fetch the Rememberall and have his trunk checked for other missing items.

"And why didn't you come straight to a Professor about this?" Professor McGonagall said repressively to Michael.

He shrugged. "I thought you would know – it was in front of most of the first year Gryffindors and Slytherins. I just figured I should give him a chance to return the Rememberall himself. I had no idea that there might have been anything else taken."

As it turned out, there was nothing else taken. When Malfoy and Snape returned to the hall, the blond boy grudgingly passed the Rememberall to McGonagall for safe-keeping and Snape handed the girl, Daphne Greengrass, an earring with an acid comment that she should have searched more diligently for it as he had used a simple locating charm to find the missing jewellery under her bed.

After that, the flying lesson itself was anti-climatic. After a little practise, Michael proved reasonably adept on a broom but didn't find any particular entertainment in it, so he wasn't among the students groaning protests when they had to relinquish the brooms to return for dinner.

As he walked into the Great Hall, Ron waved in greeting and actually left his food to meet him – an astonishing act of his part, Ron was very fond of his food. Before he could say anything however, another voice spoke.

"You think you're so tough, Potter," Draco Malfoy spat, standing with Crabbe and Goyle behind him and blocking the pair from the Ravenclaw table. "Hiding behind teachers, like you did?"

"It's a little smarter than hiding behind daddikins," Michael said cheerfully. "And quite a bit brighter than hiding behind your pet cave trolls over there. Hi Greg, hi Vinnie," he added, waving to the two hulking boys in the sure and certain knowledge that with the High Table full of teachers, neither of them could do more than crack their knuckles and scowl.

"I'd take you on anytime on my own," said Malfoy. "Tonight, if you want. Wizard's duel."

Michael cracked his own knuckles.

"Wands only," Malfoy said hastily. "No contact. What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?"

"Of course he has," said Ron, wheeling around. "I'm his second, who's yours?"

Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up. "Crabbe," he said. "Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room; that's always unlocked."

Michael snorted. "I don't feel like waiting," he said loudly. "You want a _duel_ then we do it right _here_, right _now_."

His voice didn't carry all that far, but it carried far enough. "What do you mean?" Hermione Granger said loudly. "You can't fight a duel!"

Heads around the hall and Professor McGonagall got up and began walking down the Gryffindor table.

"Malfoy challenged me," Michael said still speaking loudly. "Surely such an upstanding Slytherin wouldn't suggest anything against the rules."

"Duelling most certainly is against the rules," McGonagall said firmly. "What is going on here? Can't you and Mr Malfoy get along for even one meal, Mr Potter? This is twice just today that I've had to step in."

Michael shrugged. "He's the one making trouble. I'd never even heard of a wizard's duel until he suggested it."

"It takes two to fight, Mr Potter," McGonagall replied, her eyes narrowing slightly although her voice remained matter-of-fact. "Now go to your tables, all of you. I shall speak to Professor Snape and Professor Flitwick about your behaviour."

Michael and Draco glared at each other as they walked towards the Slytherin tables, Ron heading in the opposite direction, towards the Gryffindors.

Padma shook her head as Michael sat down opposite her. "She's right, Hal," she told him. "You and Malfoy are always fighting – I heard you punched him on the Hogwarts Express as well. You can't just go on doing that – the Malfoys are a very old family and they're very powerful."

"What's he going to do?" Michael asked. "Get his dad to have my dad fired from his job or something? Might be a teeny bit difficult."

"But think about the points you'll lose Ravenclaw if you keep fighting – you're being really selfish."

Michael glared at her. "I'm being selfish?" he asked incredulously, leaning forward over the table. "You're perfectly okay with Malfoy getting away with being a thieving bully as long as he doesn't bother you but _I'm_ being selfish. And Professor McGonagall reckons 'it takes two to fight' so we should just leave him to get on with it. No wonder Voldemort got away with all this crap – evidently no one was willing to stand up to him in case there was a fight or someone docked them points. Gryffindor courage doesn't seem to go very far, does it?"

His voice had been rising steadily as he spoke and silence had fallen over the Hall after Michael snarled the name 'Voldemort'.

"Five points from Ravenclaw." Professor McGonagall's voice was frosty as she spoke. None of the students had seen her return, too intent upon watching Michael. "A great many wizards and witches died fighting the Dark Lord, Mr Potter," she added, her voice quieter but every word pronounced with cutting precision. "Among them, your parents."

"And you seem intent on making sure no one ever fights back again," Michael snorted, rising from his seat to face her. "Since you evidently seem to think no one should stand up to a bully, oh mighty Head of Gryffindor."

"Your professors will deal with such matters," she told him flatly, lips pressed firmly together, eyes locked on his own. "Now sit down or you will cost Ravenclaw even more points."

Michael put one foot on the bench and shoved his dishes back so that he could sit on the table. "Really?" he asked sarcastically. "Professors will stand up for their students and make sure they aren't bullied? Maybe you should ask yourself, Professor McGonagall, why didn't anyone go to you? There were more than a dozen students witness to Malfoy being a theiving git, half of them from your house. But how many told a Professor? Apparently none of them. Do you have any idea whey they might not have any faith you'd do anything? Maybe they think you'd slap them down like you just tried to do me."

There was a cough from the high table and McGonagall turned to see Albus Dumbledore looking at them through his glasses. "Detention," she snapped, eyes glinting like chips of glacial ice in a face rigid with disapproval. "My office, immediately after dinner."

"I'll be there," Michael replied quietly as the Professor stalked away.

.oOo.

The other Ravenclaws seemed surprised that Michael had any appetite at all for his dinner. Most of them were merely picking at the meal, but Michael ate heartily. As he pointed to older students who approached him with horror stories about McGonagall's detentions, even a man condemned to die is entitled to a last meal.

He lingered a little over pudding, admitting privately to himself that he was putting off the detention as long as he could, but when Professor McGonagall left the high table and went up the stairs to her office, not far from the transfiguration classroom, she found Michael leaning against the wall by the door, a small book open in his hands and a short length of crimson ribbon wrapped around two fingers. Looking up as he heard her approach, the boy used the ribbon to mark his place and the book vanished into the folds of his robe. He said nothing, only standing straight as she reached the door.

Silently, her eyes still icy, the Professor gestured to the door, and there was a clearly audible click as the lock turned. A moment later, the heavy oak door swung open, just in time for her to enter without breaking stride. Without prompting, Michael followed her inside standing just far enough inside for the door to swing closed behind him. The sound of the door hitting the frame sounded very loud as compared to the silence between the room's two occupants.

Still they said nothing, although McGonagall seated herself behind a large desk heaped high with neatly ordered scrolls and a rack of scrolls and bottles of ink in various colours. For his part, Michael removed his glasses, wiped the lenses with the hem of his robe's sleeve and placed them back upon his nose.

"On one level, Mr. Potter," she said at last, "This feels very familiar." There was no yield in her voice, only an intentness. "Your father, along with his partners-in-crime, found themselves stood very much where you are now far too often for my liking and or theirs. There are, however, certain differences." Her eyes flicked down to the Ravenclaw tie that Michael wore.

Michael said nothing, meeting her gaze calmly, hands clasped behind his back.

"Even now, Mr Potter, you do not seem to think that you have done anything wrong," McGonagall stated.

"I was rather… provocative with that 'mighty Head of Gryffindor' bit," Michael said thoughtfully. "Aside from that? No, not really." There was a bite of challenge to the last sentence.

McGonagall raised one eyebrow. "So," she said frostily. "Deriding the efforts of those who spent their lives fighting against tyranny is not wrong? Undermining the authority of the teaching staff is acceptable? Publically disputing a Head of House's concern for her students is unimportant? I would not wish," she said cuttingly, "to misunderstand your position."

"May I defend myself against your assertions?" Michael said, eyes blazing, voice soft and angry.

McGonagall inclined her head fractionally. "The floor is yours, Mr. Potter."

Michael returned the gesture with slight bow. "The remark that you interpret as 'deriding the efforts of those who fought against tyranny'," he said, in a lecturing tone of voice that did not sound at all that of an eleven year old boy. "Was an indirect response to your previous statement that 'it takes two to fight'. You were, if I recall, admonishing me for not letting Draco Malfoy do and say whatever he pleases, even if he is a thief and a bigoted bully. The parallel I was drawing was that if your assertion is correct then no one should have tried to stop Voldemort from doing whatever he pleased, even if he did kill people. If it takes 'two to fight', then what happens when one person attacks somone and they don't fight back? Because I think the one who doesn't fight is going to get clobbered and it won't matter if everyone says they were a good person if they're dead. Lots of people – like my parents, as you yourself told me - fought Voldemort they because it was the right thing to do and you're the one who derided them, Professor McGonagall – very publically – when you said that they shouldn't fight for what's right because fighting is bad. You're supposed to be the courageous one, but you're teaching people to grovel to tyranny, not to fight it. If me saying that to someone in my House offends you, then that's tough – it's a free country and I can say what I think if I want to."

Professor McGonagall's eyes had widened as she heard what looked like an eleven year old boy turn her own accusation back upon her, using simplisitic but remorseless logic. Her gaze was still cold but behind the mask of her face, she saw the image of James Potter she had overlaid upon Hal Potter shatter. The elder Potter could never have employed such a tactic – for the most part because he had, at some level, recognised that he was guilty of wrongdoing when he was punihsed, even if that knowledge hadn't stopped him.

Hal… Hal didn't seem to care. With a sudden insight she realised that neither loss of points nor fear of detention had swayed him. Only her interpretation of his actions had stung him. And Minerva McGonagall had to wonder what had shaped him to be so much older than his years, not realising that behind those green eyes was a mind somewhat older and far more seasoned than that of Harold James Potter.

"As for the authority of the teaching staff, I would be very interested in hearing how I have undermined it? I do not recall disputing at any point whatsoever your right to give orders, assign punishment or carry out any other function as a teacher. I may have discussed whether or not a Professor acted correctly in any of those roles, but that is entirely different from suggesting that they are not authorised to do so. And if you mean to say that I undermined the respect that Professors are entitled to, you have the right to command obedience in some matters. Respect on the other hand, is for you to earn. Or lose." Michael folded his arms across his chest and glared. "If you don't like having your integrity questioned, perhaps you should answer some of the questions that I asked you in the Great Hall. Why didn't your House approach you about Neville's Rememberall being nicked? Because if your students don't believe that you care, then that's a pretty serious problem. And if you don't like having your failings made public, well I don't like having my family discussed in public. Do as you would be done by, Professor. Do as you would be done by."

It had been a very very long time since Minerva McGonagall had seen red. Fortunately, decades of self-control kept her from saying anything. Because it was very nearly that long since she had felt so humiliated. No first year student should ever take that tone with a Professor. And they should never, under any circumstances, be right to do so.

"I see," she said flatly and for a long moment there was silence between them, the words hanging in the air.

"Your arguments have merit, Mr. Potter," she said finally. "The points loss will stand – as is appropriate for the unacceptable tone of your language towards a professor at dinner. However, I shall not detain you further. Return to your common room."

Michael considered that for a moment and then decided not to press his luck. He bowed his head and departed, the door closing and locking behind him although the Head of Gryffindor House had not left her seat.

As a result, he did not see Minerva McGonagall open her desk drawer to remove a small bottle of firewhiskey and a bowl. She poured a dram into the bowl and a moment later a cat was sat on the desk, lapping delicately at the bowl's contents.

.oOo.

The common room was a buzz when Michael opened the door and slipped inside. No one was looking in his direction so he stepped quietly to one side. One of the tables was covered with a length of parchment that had been divided into sections. In each section was a list of names and a small stack of knuts and sickles.

The boy scratched his chin for a moment and then moved further around the edge of the room to pull a small volume out from one of the bookshelves, carefully keeping his face turned away from the rest of the room. Ah yes, he thought he'd remembered there being a spell for this situation. With a grin he tapped his spectacles once, twice and then a third time, mumbling a phrase that he was only half-sure he pronounced correctly. The bookshelf in front of him immediately leapt into gargantuan scale and he had to push the glasses down his nose to be sure that he was no closer than he had been a moment before.

Turning, he cast a sidelong look at the table and stiffled a chuckle. Each of the sections was scribbled with some terrible fate that might befall him in his detention. Some of them were quite creative and just about every member of the house had put a few coins down to judge by the number of bets on the table. There was one section that hadn't been wagered upon however. The part marked 'escapes unscathed' was innocent of any coins or names.

The part labelled 'expulsion' was a hot favourite however.

With a slight grin, Michael cancelled the spell and edged over towards the stairs up to the dormitories. However, before he reached them he spotted Lisa Turpin sat in the alcove around one of the fireplaces. Oddly, she hadn't made any bet that he'd seen. Changing his plan to something rather more rewarding, he slipped into the alcove raising one finger to his lips before the girl could say anything.

"Not getting in on the action?" he asked softly.

Lisa shrugged, masking embarassment with unconcern. "My parents are muggles, remember?" she whispered. "I don't have any wizarding money to bet with."

Michael nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a knut. "Well, maybe we can do something about that. I'll lend you a knut," he offered. "For a half share of anything you win by betting on 'excaped unscathed'."

Lisa's eyes lit up and she grabbed the coin, dashing out of the alcove. "I want to make a bet," she half-shouted, pushing through the crowd around the table.

"It needs to be wizarding money, Lisa," Michael heard Morag tell the girl.

"I borrowed a knut," Lisa said indignantly. "And I want to bet it here!" She slapped the knut down on the table.

There was a brief pause and then a ripple of chuckles. "Haven't you had a Transfiguration class yet?" asked Roger Davies. "There's no chance he'll get away lightly after what he said to Professor McGonagall."

There was a brief pause and then, just when Michael was beginning to worry, Lisa replied. "I've had lots more classes with Hal and I think he's too clever to get into any of the trouble you've all bet on."

"It's your money," Roger replied. "Well, I suppose it isn't yours actually – good luck repaying it by the way."

Michael made a mental note that Roger was a creep and stepped casually out of the fireplace alcove. "Repay what?" he asked innocently.

"Hal!" shouted Terry from the far side of the table. "When did you get back?"

"Just now," Michael lied. "What's all the fuss about."

"Oh, just a little game," Terry replied. "How did your detention go?" he asked with studied casualness.

Michael's eyes glittered. "Oh, no big. We had a little chat and then she told me she'd decided what I said didn't merit a detention after all. Very civilised." He paused. "Why do you ask?"

A chorus of groans went up along the table and Penelope Clearwater began to roll up the parchment, sliding the coins along it to join the solitary knut at the end. "Well guessed, Lisa," she said. Quite cheerfully, as she'd only bet a single knut herself.

The rest of Ravenclaw were less cheerful about the outcome but couldn't exactly make an issue about it with Michael right there with them. "Oh, just wondering," Terry mumbled.

.oOo.

September turned into October, as it has a habit of doing, and October made it's way towards November. It hadn't quite ended, however, when Halloween rolled around. Michael had never had much time for Halloween – he much preferred Guy Fawkes where there would be a bonfire and fireworks rather than trick or treaters. Oddly enough, there didn't seem to be much actually magical about Halloween at Hogwarts although there was to be a small measure of celebration – decorations in the Great Hall and a special Halloween feast.

Given that Halloween was the night before All Hallows and was reputedly a very 'witchy' night, Michael was a trifle disappointed. However, there was still schoolwork to do, and he still had a good selection of books to read, so he just got on with it. Maybe if he got the chance over Christmas he could pick up some Legos. It would be a mite expensive but he rather missed the collection that he'd built up over the years back at home.

Michael was late to get to dinner that night. He'd seen the Halloween decorations already, and he'd had a good lunch so when the other first year boys left the dormitory, he remained curled up on his bed, one of his paperbacks out and entirely engrossed.

As a result, it wasn't until he reached the end of the chapter that he realised that it was very quiet. Usually Terry, Michael (Corner) and Anthony were chattering away in the room as they got ready for dinner. Tonight however… He looked around and realised he was alone and the clock on the wall was pointing to dinnertime.

"Oi!" he squeaked indignantly and then recalled that Terry had said something, but he'd not really been paying attention… "Oh."

With a sigh, Michael put a bookmark in his book and put it back in his bag before jumping off his bed and scurrying for the door. With a bit of luck he'd be able to get to the feast before it was over and at least he'd have something to eat then, even if the others did tease him a bit for being late.

He'd got about halfway when heard voices from ahead and realised that the other students must already be on their way back. "Oh blast," he muttered and looked around for a moment, then headed for a different staircase. Perhaps there would still be food on the tables he could take, or he could try to get into the kitchens. He had just turned a corner when he heard footsteps from behind him.

Turning, Michael spotted Snape coming down the corridor. Fortunately, the Potions professor was looking over his shoulder at that moment and Michael ducked into an alcove and wrapped his cloak around him. For Snape to find him on his own would undoubtedly lead to another confrontation, which Michael wasn't in the mood for. He remained in the alcove and Snape walked right past him, striding purposefully along, his black robes billowing dramatically around him.

After a moment Michael stuck his head out of the alcove and saw that Snape had taken another turning and vanished down it. With a sigh, he continued on his way but he had onlyu gone a short distance when his nose wrinkled and he paused. "What the hell is that?" he muttered as a disgusting stench wafted along the corridor. It was fouler than anything he'd smelt in his life.

The smell was followed by the sound of someone – or something – grunting, and then heavy, shambling footsteps. At the end of the corridor he could see the shadows move as something huge passed between the windows and the wall. Michael gulped and looked for another alcove. He couldn't find one that was handy, but there was a door right next to him and he quickly threw it open, ducked inside and then closed as quickly but quietly as he could manage.

"Wha- what are you doing here?" protested a loud and unwelcome voice.

Michael groaned as he realised that he'd just picked the girl's bathroom as a hiding place. And worse – it was occupied by none other than Hermione Granger. "Shush!" he whispered, holding his finger to his lips.

"Don't you shush me, Hal Potter," she replied loudly, her bossy tone at odds with the red around her eyes. She'd been crying, Michael realised, but he had no time to consider that for a tremendous force pushed against the door behind him and he was slowly being driven back as the door opened inexorably.

Giving it up as a lost cause, he leapt forwards, letting the door slam open behind him and brought out his wand, whirling as he reached Hermione, who cringed at his approach and then blanched as she saw the troll.

It was a horrible sight, three times as tall as either of them and at least ten times as massive, a great lumpy body on short, stumpy legs and covered with grey skin like an elephants. It was evidently the source of the smell, which didn't seem to trouble it at all as it waggled it's long ears while it examined the two of them with beady little eyes. It was almost superfluous that the troll carried a troll – it would hardly need it to crush either one of the two first years – its fists alone were almost as large as them.

Hermione made an odd little whining noise and began to back slowly towards the far wall. The troll fixed it's gaze upon her and then began to follow, it's shuffling pace matching the girl's speed exactly. Michael gulped as the troll's club, all but forgotten in it's hand, brushed against one of the sinks and shattered the porcelin basin. "Stop…?" he said weakly. The troll, unsurprisingly, didn't obey.

"I didn't think so," he sighed and reached into his robes again, pulling out the potion that he'd been working on in the storeroom fof the Ravenclaw common room that had been set up as a basic potions laboratory years and years ago for students wanting to practise their skills. He'd not had time to test it yet but he'd put a vial in his pocket earlier in the day – he'd been thinking of testing it on one of the chickens that were kept at Hogwarts to provide fresh eggs – and never taken it out when the opportunity arose.

Now it seemed that this was the opportunity, but he'd never expected to test it on himself. Still he was fairly sure he'd got it right. With a fair approximation of brash confidence he took two steps back, uncapped the vial and drained it entirely.

It tasted rather like liquid fire would, he decided as his limbs began to spasm and he fell to the floor, clutching at his throat. Blood thundered in his ears and he thought he could hear Hermione shout his name ('Hal' rather than his real name, of course). He choked out a cough and blinked as the breath scorched the stones beneath him.

"Hal!" Hermione shrieked again. "Get back!"

Rolling aside, Michael felt the stone floor actually shake as the Troll's foot crashed down right where his head had been a moment before. The troll stared down at him and Michael stared back. Then the heavy club descended upon him.

Hermione screamed and covered her eyes.

"Bad troll," Michael said in a rather shaky voice. He had instinctively held up his hands to ward off the blow and rather to his surprise had managed to stop the club without any great effort. "Bad troll," he repeated and then, rather inanely he felt in retrospect, added: "No biscuit."

The troll lifted the club to try again and Michael, not having released his grip, was hoisted into the air, dangling helplessly from it as he realised that superhuman strength was of remarkably little use when he didn't have any leverage to work with.

"AAAAHHH!" he screamed as the club descended and let go, landing heavily and scrambling back from the impact of the club (which cracked the stone floor in places).

With Michael apparently neutralised, the Troll roared, the sound shaking the windows of the bathroom, and started towards Hermione, who huddled underneath a sink and hid her face in her hands.

Michael gathered his wits and pulled out his wand as the Troll raised its club in preparation for smashing through the sink and reducing Hermione to a bloody pulp. He didn't know any spells that could stop the club itself, he realised, so instead he aimed the wand at the troll's beady eyes and sent sparks darting at them.

The troll screamed in pain and raised it's hands to protect it's face from the torrent of gold and blue sparks that were shooting at it. Forgetting entirely about Hermione, the beast dropped its club, which crashed down just short of the sink, missing Hermione by only a couple of inches.

"Crap," Michael muttered – it was entirely too dangerous to keep fighting in these confined quarters, he or Hermione could be hurt entirely by accident with the troll flailing around as it was.

With that in mind, he charged forwards, hoping that the troll would keep it's hands up for a moment longer, and kicked it firmly in the ankle. With a distressed look on it's face, the Torll began to howl in a discordant voice, hopping as it stopped clutching it's face in favour of shielding it's abused ankle from more attacks by wrapping it's stubby fingers around the joint. Michael took advantage of this reaction by shoulder-barging the beast as firmly as he could, sending it staggering to land in a sitting posture on the floor.

The troll, by this time rather annoyed, rolled over onto all fours and began to the heave itself up to it's feet. With a great war cry, Michael charged, putting one foot on the troll's already injured ankle and leapt up onto the Troll's back, clambering to reach the neck. Howling with pain, the Troll reached back to it's ankle, giving Michael the moment he needed to climb it's back, and then reared up to its feet. Michael, in danger of being flung off, wrapped his arms around the troll's neck and hung on for dear life.

The troll staggered, huge hands clutching at it's throat, unable to secure a hold on something as small as Michael's forearms when they were pressed so closely into the flesh of the beast's neck. For his part Michael was almost choking with revulsion at pressing his face into the troll, but it was the only way he could get close enough to lock his arms around it's neck. Grimly, he tightened his grip, feeling cartilage giving way under the steady pressure.

With a grunt that Hermione rather thought was intended to be a scream, the troll gathered itself and threw itself violently backwards. Evidently, it was trying to crush Michael against the wall, but as it was unable to see behind itself, by pure chance the two of them crashed into the wooden door to the corridor, which shattered under the impact of the two bodies.

There was a horrid crunch and Hermione screamed, imagining Michael smashed to bits against the wall opposite.

As it happened, she had the location correct – Michael lost hold of the Troll as it fell to the floor in the corridor and fell backwards onto the floor, rolling to wind up sat with his back against the wall. With a groan he shook his head and then winced, reaching back to touch the back of his head where he'd bumped it painfully against the hard stone of the castle wall.

Looking up he saw the troll sprawled on the floor, laid on one side with it's eyes closed. It didn't seem inclined to move, which was good news because right at the moment Michael wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to move, at least until the castle stopped spinning.

Loud footsteps came crashing down the corridor and he looked up cautiously to see three Professors round the corner. They paused when the saw the troll and one of them clutched at his chest and leant heavily against the wall. Doing so brought his turban into sight, revealing him to be Professor Quirell. The other two hurried up, passing through the light from a window that let Michael identify them as Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall.

Snape ignored Michael, kneeling beside the troll to examine it, but McGonagall stood over the boy. The look on her face as she looked down at him was one Michael recognised from their earlier confrontation. "What on earth were you thinking of?" she demanded between pinched white lips. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in the Ravenclaw dormitory?"

Michael blinked up at her from his seated position. "I… wasn't aware I should be," he said mildly. "I'll grant you I'd probably have safer if I had been but how could I know there was a troll wandering around?" Then he looked down at the troll and saw Snape look up at him with a piercing glance. "And it's a good job I was here, or you'd be missing a Gryffindor," he added, gesturing to Hermione, who was peeking nervously out of the door of the girl's toilets.

"Miss Granger!" exclaimed McGonagall.

"I don't believe that Hermione knew anything about the Troll either," Michael said quietly. "Perhaps you could tell me why you believe we should have known?"

"Were either of you at dinner?" the Deputy-Headmistress asked. Both children shook their heads and she sighed. "Well – in that case, no, you couldn't have known. Now – are either of you hurt at all?"

They shook their heads.

"That is extremely fortunate," she said sternly. "I hope you understand that even thinking of tackling a mountain troll on your own was a very foolish thing to do Mr. Potter."

"It was something of a last resort," Michael said, rising to his feet. "I was only in the toilets at all because it was the nearest room to hide in."

"Well," she said, rather more graciously, "You were still lucky, but not many first years could take on -"

"Kill," Snape said flatly.

"Kill?" McGonagall said in surprise.

"It's dead," Snape said silkily. "Mr Potter seems to have broken it's neck. Very forceful of him."

Michael looked at him steadily. "I wasn't particularly trying to do that," he said quietly. "But I won't shed any tears either. It wouldn't have spared either of us."

"Nonetheless, you have won Ravenclaw five points, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said sternly, "And I shall advise Professor Dumbledore of this. You should go to your dormitories now, the rest of the feast has been taken to them so you should be able to have your dinners there."

Michael nodded and turned towards the stairs. As he took the first few steps, Hermione fell in beside him. She flushed angrily at his quizzical look. "The Gryffindor tower is in this direction," she snapped. "Don't worry, I won't bother you."

"Eh?" Michael said puzzled. "What do you mean, bother?"

The look of anger on Hermione's face shifted into one of embarassment. "Sorry," she said. "It's just… well, no one seems to want me around."

"Not got many friends myself," Michael replied amicably. "I'm just not the sort of person who does."

"I don't have any," Hermione said and sniffed.

Michael gave her a puzzled look. "Well, surely at home…?"

Hermione shook her head and said nothing.

Scratching his forehead, Michal looked at her for a moment and tried to think of something to do or say. "Er… would you rather be happy, or right?" he asked, after a moment.

"What?" Hermione asked, confused by the change of topic.

"Would you rather be happy," Michael repeated. "Or right? Someone wrote that somewhere and I was thinking, Malfoy wants to be right about that pureblood stuff so much that he does things that make him unhappy because they get him into trouble. And my -" He caught himself before he said Mum, reminding himself that Harry Potter's Mum wasn't the same person. "- well, someone I know, always wants to do things her way and have everyone else do them her way too and she's always arguing, and pushing people, 'cause being right matters to her. But not everyone's like that – I'm not, I don't really care about being right as long as I can get along, so I'd rather be happy than right."

Hermione thought about that for a moment. Before they parted ways, she asked: "Do you mean I should be more like you?"

Michael shrugged. "No, just remember that some people are. And we don't like getting poked when we're happy."

He grinned and then left her at the turning, still thinking about what he had said to her.

.oOo.

The next morning, at breakfast, Michael greeted Hermione by raising his mug in salute and grinning across the Hall at her. She flushed and raised her own cup in reply and smiled shyly.

.oOo.

Michael wasn't surprised to discover that Hogwarts got very chilly as November rolled around. He realled it being moderately nippy down in the borders between Scotland and England, which he'd visisted on holidays around this time of year, and Hogwarts was a great deal further north, he suspected. The countryside outside Hogwarts was all grey, with the leafs off many of the trees and the lake reflecting a sky that was solid clouds. Even this early in the year, the ground was frosty and cold.

Naturally this meant that the sporting season had begun. After all, why race around in the pleaseant weather when you can do so in the freezing cold? Almost any moment that there wasn't a class, one of another of the House teams would be out on the pitch training. The sessions were almost always restricted entirely to members of the respective Houses, but there was often a strong array of hangers on and spectators.

Ravenclaw took advantage of this by organising (or perhaps the word was drafting) scratch teams of students to pit against the House team, to get as much practise as possible. It wasn't until after Michael spent a couple of rather wearying evenings trying to keep the Quaffle out of the goals that he noticed that the team had gone out of their way to make sure that all the first years had some time on the pitch, even though they would be less likely to put up any serious opposition. From there he quickly deduced that the team were discreetly scouting the first year for potential players over the next couple of years.

Once that was clear he simply declined all ploys to get him onto the pitch by declaring his complete, total and adamant disinterest in the sport and was able to stay inside where it was still quite cosy and much quieter with so many of the other students outside chasing balls on household cleaning implements.

The day before the first Quidditch match took place, Michael was sitting with Hermione in the courtyard, cold as it was, waiting for Ron to get back from watching the Gryffindor team practise. Hermione and Ron weren't terribly friendly, but they were at least on better terms than they had been – Michael had had some firm words with Ron when he found out why Hermione had spent most of a day crying in the girl's toilets. And since they were both friends with Michael and both in the same House they had, by default, found themselves interacting more and more.

Today Hermione was buried in Quidditch Through the Ages and would occasionally regale Micheal with little known facts such as that there were seven hundred possible fouls and that there had actually been a match five hundred years ago where every last one of the had been committed. Michael thought that that was overachieving. Although given that tomorrow's match would pit Gryffindor against Slytherin in what was apparently something of a grudgematch, it might be applicable.

He himself was reading through a battered copy of Swallows and Amazons that he'd picked up in the summer, missing his dad's complete collection of the books. He was just getting to one of the good bits when Snape limped into the courtyard. He paused when he saw Michael and Hermione and then turned to approach them, apparently looking for a reason to tell them off.

"What's that you've got there, Potter?"

Michael held hup his book so that Snape could see the cover. It was an old hardback binding, not so different from any other book in the school – not obviously muggle which he supposed would have automatcially set Snape off.

"Library books are not to be taken outside the school," said Snape. "Give it to me. Five points from Ravenclaw."

"It's not the library's book," Michael replied. "It's mine."

"And I suppose that your book is not Hogwarts property?" Snape asked Hermione archly. Naturally, he did not retract the points-taking. "Hand it over."

"And I suppose that you can show us that rule in the writing?" Michael intervened as Hermione seemed unwilling to confront a Professor over a supposed rules violation. She'd loosened up a little but was still rather more concientious about them than Michael.

Snape glared down at him. "Angling for expulsion?" he asked silkily.

"I'd love to hear you explain that to the Headmaster," Michael shot back. "Or the Governors. Expelled for breaking a rule that exists only in your head? Rather a weak argument, even by your standards."

Snape glared and then limped away angrily.

"I wonder what he did to his leg," Hermione said.


End file.
